Breakneck Sabbatical
by Albertus Zeno
Summary: A demon makes Harry his meat-sack in a moment of weakness, and rides him all the way to South Dakota. There it attempts to track down Bobby Singer, but it's in for a nasty surprise. Harry is rescued, and in more ways then one. Warnings inside.
1. Chapter 1

**To the Masses:** Gosh, another day another story. I just had to though, because the idea has been plaguing me for a while. I had a little breakthrough yesterday, devoured a couple of Harry/Dean stories, and then got to writing my own….Yay?

Warnings: OOC, AU, Slash (Harry/Dean, duh), bad grammar, choppy concepts, leaves more questions than answers, so on and so forth.

Disclaimer: I don't own it. Alright?

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**Chapter One**

_"Ideas pull the trigger, but instinct load the gun," said Don Marquis_

He wasn't raised surrounded by the warmth of magic, he would even admit to knowing very little about the world he had jumped into when he was eleven. He cursed himself for not learning about his surroundings, about the transportation, the fashions, the laws. Hell, he didn't even know where he would begin to search for something like a grocery store for witches and wizards. It was as if all of that extra studying at night, behind the red drapes on his bed, while everyone else was asleep -it just felt all useless. _He _felt useless.

It was hard not to feel so utterly ineffective when he was being pinned to a headstone in the middle of a graveyard. He could barely turn his head, and even when he did his neck and back would radiate such an intense pain that he didn't want to anyways. His arms were held in place by a stone scythe, and his legs were numb as they just dangled there. His scar even burned, more than it every had before. The pain radiated through his head and spread throughout his body, so intensely that had begun to blur.

None of that compared to the emotional pain he was feeling. Passed his adrenaline and his fear he felt such a sadness and hopelessness as he replayed the moment of Cedric's death over and over in fast forward, the green light that flew towards him and the way his body crumpled to the ground. The warmth that was leaving his body as his blood stopped flowing as his body began to loose color.

Harry should have known it was a bloody port-key. At the very least he should have realized the final task would have some sort of trap waiting for him. All of the signs pointed towards a final and dramatic act that would end in his death. His name in the goblet, all of the little clues that were being left around, Snape's stolen ingredients, and especially _Moody. _Harry knew he was a fake the moment he made of spectacle out of himself and his first entrance as a Professor. If that hadn't tipped him off, then he should have known by the man's complete obsession with the Unforgivables.

He knew because he did his own research, while the others weren't looking. The Ministry kept public records on several things -including Dueling Tournaments that they host. He'd found them the very day that someone had mentioned their Charms Professor being a Master Duelist, and Moody has also struck him as someone to keep an eye on. Through all of those records he learned several new spells, and the one spell that was used more often than not was one that sent a stinging sensation through a persons body. Usually the opponent would drop their wand in shock and then be knocked out by a quick stunner or sleeping curse. It was Alastor Moody's favorite technique, and the Unforgivable Obsessed Fake obviously hadn't done his homework.

He'd told Dumbledore his suspicions, but before he could explain his evidence he was brushed off. The Headmaster insisted that Moody was actually the one and only. Harry couldn't do very much after that, or so he was told. Instead he focused on keeping away from the man and pulling his friends along with him. He should have known the Fake was up to something -Well, he did. He thought the Fake had something to do with an insurance scandal that the Carrow Family had been concocting, it was all over the papers. Harry wasn't sure what it was all about, but the appearance of a spy at the school sounded like something the stupid Ministry would try.

He was pulled out of his self-loathing rants as Wormtail approached him. He was saying something, as Harry could see his lips moving, but he couldn't her a damned thing. Blood was pounding in his ears in the combination of his migraine, the undoubtedly bruising along his spine, and the adrenaline coursing through his blood.

His blood -he suddenly realized, as Wormtail held a silver knife against his skin. Silver for the Moon Goddess and cleansing. His blood had to be pure when it went in, that's what it meant. The Moon was also full that night, he thought softly as he tried to kick the little traitor. His numb legs missed and Wormtail let out a high pitched squeal of laughter.

The rat faced man carefully walked back to the cauldron; black, size twenty or twenty two, burning over a large fire. The potion inside needed plenty of heat, and the bastard and his demon-slash-Voldemort baby needed it in large quantities. Harry watched as the knife was tipped sideways and his blood hit the surface of the bubbling concoction. It was tan and turned into a dark shade, he couldn't tell what color in the dark even if the moonlight was shining so brightly.

He paid no attention as the fool cut off his own hand without hesitation. He had an idea, and a bloody awful one as far as sudden idea's went. He didn't want to, but he had no choice. It would hurt like hell when he was doen and leave him as vulnerable as a goldfish outside of it's bowl, but it was the only idea he'd had so far.

He bent his head back and let his green eyes take in the pregnant girth of the moon, delving deep into himself and used the agony and the guilt to push his magic out of his body. The magic stayed connected to him and his core by a thread, and felt strained as well as exhilarating. Without that thread his whole body would probably be drained and he would die.

The power he felt dove into the stone that held him, the earth, the graves, and the bodies of the dead. The earth gave way to his magic and joyfully toyed with the power. He wove it into every precious stone an natural proxy within miles, he flexed his magical muscles and the power kept multiplying. Soon enough the stone around him broke under the strain and he tumbled to the ground.

His bright green eyes gleamed silver for seconds after they left the sight of the orb of night, but the connection had still been broken. He could no longer see or hear, but he could still feel. The magic that he'd sent out was still rampaging free and was tearing or healing everything it could. He tried his hardest to pull it away from the dead, he wasn't quite ready to commit necromancy. It continued to delve deeper into the earth than it every had when he'd practiced alone, and it reached minerals that he wasn't familiar with.

There was one that was comforting, that his magic clung to even while he was on the verge of passing out. His magic wrapped around the salt of the earth, keeping him alive from a distance as he lost the rest of his senses. In the part of his mind that was still aware he knew that it wasn't supposed to happen that way, his connection was never supposed to break.

The only comfort he still had was his faith in the earth and the moon and that they would take him home. They would take them both home and the Traitor and his Lord would pay. Fate was a bitch, was something he'd heard often enough in his mind, but at least this time she would be directing her sick sense of humor at someone else.

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**To Those Who Just Read:**

Well that's the shittiest first chapter I think I've ever written. Wait, no it's not…but it's pretty close.

I posted the second chapter along with this one to avoid confusion and to make up for this one.

**Recommendations:**

Asmodeus by She Who Cannot Be Turned

You Leave the World Behind by Moriarty's Minion

They're both awesome as…as *thinks* Homemade Apple Pie, you know -with a little vanilla ice cream on the side.

I like reviews and quotes,

_Alzipher_


	2. Chapter 2

**To the Masses**: Chapter two as promised. I think there will be a little more explanation, but the way I'm going to write Harry you probably won't get all the answers until they pull 'em from Harry's malnourished body with a pair of needle nose pliers.

Warning: OOC, AU, Slash (Harry/Dean, duh), bad grammar, choppy concepts, child abuse, sexual abuse, grumpy old men, chick-flick moments, leaves more questions than answers, so on and so forth.

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or Harry Potter.

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**Chapter Two**

_'I learned that it is the weak who are cruel, and that gentleness is to be expected only from the strong,' Leo Rosten_

The small figure that dotted the porch unnerved old Bobby Singer. He wore ratty clothing, the colors were worn, and there wasn't a sewn hem in sight. His dishevelment hair was thick with oil and grime, and looked brittle as if it would fall out should he run his bony fingers through it. His skin was pale and blotchy, probably from wondering around in the summer heat. The only thing about this young boy that didn't speak of poverty were his eyes, intense green pools that looked right through the door, right into his very soul. Green eyes that begged for something, that weren't solid and confident like his posture, but seeking him out.

Bobby readjusted his hat with a thick hand. He looked left and then right at the two covered windows, he strained his ears for the sound of his dog, and finally he checked his right pocket for his flask of holy water. Everything was were in should be, including the old shot gun that was a small distance away. When all was checked and accounted for he shouted out, rather then opening the door. "Who the hell are you, and what the hell do you want?"

"I'm looking for Bobby Singer," the voice called back cheerfully. It was devoid of any accent, so he mustn't have been from that part of the country. Another glance into the peep hole, Bobby watched as he looked from side to side, and there was still no sight of the dog. It was a difficult situation; on one hand a lot of hunters came through his place for information or outfitted vehicles. On the other, demons also knew his name and would occasionally try their own hand at killing him.

He unlocked the door and swung it open, "Aren't you a little young to be out here by yourself?" he asked. Even if he was possessed by a demon, there was a chance to get it out. A small opportunity to save a small boy, when he couldn't save his beloved wife. It was a sort of hunters remorse, but it wasn't uncommon. Every hunter has regrets, nightmares that followed them into the day full of 'what if's and 'I could have's.

When Bobby stepped to the side the boy stepped in without hesitation and proceeded to take in the décor with a smug disposition. Both of his arms were crossed behind his back and he walked on the front ball of his foot, very light and gracefully. His knees bobbed as he glided around the foyer, looking in each room that he could. "Nice place you have here, Bobby," he commented in the same cheerful voice. His eyes scrunched up in amusement and flashed black for the briefest of seconds before he turned away again.

Bobby had already seen it, all of the conformation he needed to know this little boy was possessed. Quickly he swung the shot gun up, the butt of the weapon connected with the boys jaw in a swift and practiced motion. "That's Mr. Singer to you, Demon," he sneered, and then the body went limp.

When the demon finally opened his eyes Harry could only see blurs at first. The vile creature that was inhabiting his body had shoved him into the very back of his own mind, and it took a lot of his energy to focus on everything around him.

The first thing he noticed was the mess, and the demon cackled at that little fact. Harry had been raised by Petunia Dursley, so he didn't really see what all of the amusement was about. He had even become known as the most anal retentive bloke in Gryffindor, of course he was going to notice the stakes of books and loose papers. He also noticed the various bottles of booze, some of the labels were even familiar to him, and there was dust. Dear Merlin was there dust, it coated nearly everything, even some of the dirty dishes that were piled high on a near by table.

The demon echoed his thoughts, speaking in the third person. "The little magic boy inside of me thinks this place could use a good scrubbing down," it twisted Harry's small mouth into a sneer, "really I'm surprised he could find enough energy to see through his own eyes. Most little human's just stay in the back of their mind, where I put them and cry and cry and cry."

Harry even marveled at the difference of his voice without an accent (he sounded much more masculine), before he took in the important things. He barely notice his mind was in a bit of a fog, or that he was easily distracted and disoriented. Only after a small bit of pondering did he push through the blackness again to see two people standing around. He didn't recall how he, _they_ got there. Wherever there was, or how they had been tied to a chair, or why two muggle had just thrown water on him, or why that water _bloody hurt_.

Tannin, something in the part of his mind that was still his own had offered, was the name of the demon and he didn't seem to be listening to his thoughts anymore, but he did laugh again. "Do you think that little Holy water is going to hurt for long, this boy's magic heals us up so well," he paused to lick his lips, "these little natural born witches are so tasty, and I'm sure my brothers and sisters would agree. Magic without the taint of demon, it's tastes just like candy." The demon puffed out his chest and writhed in the chair, "and once you start that little Latin chanting and open him up all I have to do is latch onto a bit of his earth magic and it'll be all mine."

Harry's mind did an impression of a scoff, and he would have been content to start his own mental rant. He was even tempted to collect all of the magic he'd recovered and toss it at the demon so it could get a taste of 'candy.' Harry knew better though, because he'd done his research unlike Tannin. Earth Magic by Romulous DeCuva explained in plain terms that the natural magic was Holy, like a crucifix or an ankh -it didn't accept anything that wasn't of the earth, and would probably burn right through the demon. Harry tried his hardest not to think of it though, and pushed as far away form the stupid demon as he could.

He tried to focus his attention on the men in front of them, as hard as he could. He was having a terrible time of it, but he got far enough through the haze to take in their appearances. They were both passed their prime and reminded him of some of his instructors at Hogwarts -like soldiers that were still battling on. He could tell one was holding a book and the other was pointing a muggle gun in his direction, but any further details were caught in the smoke of demon that crowded his mind.

"Demons lie," the younger of the two weary men snapped. "You'll go back to hell just like all the others, into the deepest pits and it'll be years before you'll have the strength to crawl out again." He was the one that was holding the gun pointed at Harry's face.

Harry did another mental expression that resembled one of his fiercest glares and swore to do them one better. He was going to kill the son of a bitch that violated his very mind, and he would do it with the magic the demon wanted to leech from him. He just needed a couple of more minutes to gather his strength. It was too bad the moon wasn't out, he thought absently, then again the last time he'd made that connection he ended up passed out and possessed by a demon. Harry decided to settle with what he had already at his disposal.

"What?" The demon taunted, "You don't believe this little pond hopper isn't the best magical little beastie I've ever tasted? Oh, I tell you -he is, and more. So much more," it crooned. Harry's mental impression turned from one of annoyance to one of panic as the demon continued on. "He had a _funny_ aunt you see," he paused to cackle, and Harry thought that if he was in control over his own face it would have paled dramatically, "I got to continue where she left off. We had so many whores in this body, human women are just so much fun," he leered.

Harry swore he was going to vomit as soon as he got his body back, and then he was going to get a hot shower. After his hot shower maybe he would try some of those cleansing rituals he read about, and if that didn't help he was seriously contemplating jumping off of a cliff with plenty rocks at the bottom. He wouldn't be able to do anything until he had his own body back though, so he settled on rage. Pure, unadulterated rage began to seep through his mind and stir his magic.

The two men looked at one another out of the corner of their eyes, and then back at him in pity. Harry hated that look, but it was over soon enough as one of the men began to chant and the other followed his example. If his translations were right, and they usually were, then it was some sort of exorcism. It was opening up his mind and pulling the darkness away as if it were smoke. Harry could see better, he could focus, and he began to mentally chant along with the other men.

Harry hadn't realized that his own magic was being blocked from his core by the demon, Tannin's presence. He was sure that even the idiot spirit hadn't realized he was creating a block between the human inside of him and the magic the earth had graced him with upon his birth. As the Latin phrases opened him up even more he felt his magic return to him, swirl around his center in a catalyst of colors and it soon started swirling around like a tornado. His magic was obeying the exorcism, but Harry fought to keep his control. He had different plans for Tannin then just sending him home.

He willed his magic to search for what they needed; a bit of the earth to help them achieve what Harry wanted. It found what it needed in several little things; bloodstone, obsidian, moonstone, and crystal quartz flew out of hiding places and orbited around him. His eyes shone green and silver as he directed his magic to separate what was Tannin from what was Harry. Black smoke erupted him his mouth, moving like broken glass and razors along his throat. Harry's green eyes reflected the pain and the anger and he directed it all towards the demon, and he used the maelstrom inside of him to shove the very essence of Tannin into the stones that surrounded him.

When everything was released the stones still orbited, but he was free of the demon. He wanted to breath in and sigh in relief, but there was still something in the back of his mind; something that had been with him for a very long time, but Harry still knew it didn't belong. It hovered behind his scar and blurred his vision. It hurt and burned and cursed him, it had caused him so much unneeded pain.

A crystal quartz came to hover in front of him and his bright green eyes locked on. While the men were still chanting, albeit their voices were now full of confusion instead of confidence, he pulled out that piece of soul that didn't feel like him. It was a vile brown color, like the potion from before. The one in the size twenty-two cauldron, kept at a high temperature, and used the bone of the father.

Harry's eyes narrowed as he collected his anger again and he used it to shove the rest of the intruding souls out of his body for good. The stone filled with the nasty color, and then it was over. He released everything from his magic and the stones fell to the ground, shattering on impact. Little pieces of demon and dark lord littered the ground and irrupted into Fiendfire, each little spark of cursed fire encased an impish face that burned and burned until there was nothing left of the souls.

When it was all gone he felt tired and his body ached all over, like he knew he would after using so much free magic. It wasn't taught at Hogwarts for a reason, and he knew he was beyond lucky to find the book when he did. The way he had been using his magic was dangerous and archaic, and the American Ministry would probably come down on his head. Maybe he would even be sent to Azkaban.

He was able to pick little facts and impressions when he had finally awoken in the back of his own mind. While the demon was gloating it had let it's guard down and Harry knew a few things, like it's name and why it had possessed him to begin with. He also knew they were in a place called South Dakota in the U.S. Everything else was a little blurry, but would come back to him when he was ready.

"I apologize," he said as soon as he had gathered the strength to look at the two men who had saved him. "I am so sorry that I brought this upon you, and I'm sorry about the I broke your healing stones, and the holes in your things," and he continued on and on like that for nearly a full minute.

The elderly of the two men shut the book abruptly, cutting him off mid rant. Harry noticed he was a bit shorter, his clothes were old but well kept, and his beard was trimmed neatly. He was reminded of the Weasley's, who didn't have much but took care of the things they did own. Also like the Weasley's where the man's blue eyes, but this American's gaze was more calculating and suspicious. "Cristo," _Christ _the man said in a booming voice, and just as quickly his arm flung out and water drenched the front of his shirt and the front of the ropes that were holding him upright.

"Er," Harry paused to think, "gratia agere vos, idcirco spiritus," _thank you, for my life _he continued uncertainly. Not of his own speaking abilities, but he was sure that these men were thinking of killing him for witchcraft. They were muggles after all, but maybe the American Ministry would swoop in and save him before they decided to tie him to the burning post and light him on fire.

"You're a witch," the hat-less one said, and didn't lower his shot gun. Harry looked down the barrel at hazel eyes, and he saw anger and sadness.

Yup, Harry thought, he was going to die. Since he thought it was inevitable he saw no harm in taking offence, so he outwardly scoffed, "As grateful as I am, that still doesn't make me a woman. I do believe the proper term would be Wizard. Yes, I do hold a magical core." The last bit was in an attempt to distinguish himself from what P.A. Dodling (a werewolf and author of 'The Black Mass,' and 'Low Magic') knew as Deal-Makers, muggles who worshiped a demon and gained knowledge of dark rituals through the practice of something called Legilimency and Occlumency.

"Who did you make a deal with? That demon we just exorcized?" the same man continued to question. It was just the beginning of an interrogation, one that depending on his cooperation and the careful wording of his answers.

"No deal," Harry choked out, his resolve to stay strong was being worn away by the callous treatment and his own tiredness. "Tannin was a stupid, animal possessing, no magic hack of a demon. I saw it all in his mind; how he found me, how he planned on killing a hunter, and all to outdo his vile demon siblings," Harry tried to explain. "Earth Magic by Romulous DeCuva, early fourteenth century states that a natural born witch or wizard posses within them a core of magic that is linked with an energy flow of the earth as soon as we're born. It's much like a tectonic plate of magic, but it's called a lae line," he had started quoting as he became at a loss of what to say. "I didn't think killing a demon would make me so tired," he mumbled more to himself than anything.

"What was that boy?" the elderly man demanded to know. He looked to still be processing the other information Harry had offered, but he could allow someone to mutter things -not when speaking Latin had a power of it's own.

Harry bit into his bottom lip and debating if he should to as he was told or not to repeat himself. He didn't know what would become of him if he revealed his magic to be so powerful, because these men obviously thought you couldn't do much more than send a demon back to hell. "I said," he sighed in defeat at the harsh look the men were giving him, "I didn't think killing a demon would make me so tired."

"What do you mean 'kill it?' What did you do with the stones and the demon?" The man with the gun continued to demand. His knuckles were beginning to turn white with the force of his grip, and he would soon tire himself out if he didn't calm down.

"I mean what I said. The demon, Tannin is dead. He invaded my body and who knows what he was doing while I was being buried in my own mind. If it hadn't been for that blow to my jaw the demon would have kept me locked away and continued on the rampage until someone else knocked my screws loose," indeed, Harry was telling the truth. The force of the blow from Mr. Bobby Singer had shocked the demon from his ultimate reign and Harry had been allowed to wake. "Earth Magic, by Romulous DeCuva states that the power of a natural witch or wizard is something that demons do not understand and cannot control. It's in no way compatible with their basic nature. No one before now has known what would happen to a demon should they come into direct contact with it, because there's never been a demon stupid enough to posses someone with a natural magical core. At least none that I've read about, but the library doesn't have a lot on the subject and I still can't get to some of the other shelves in the restricted section."

"Earth Magic?" The eldest man said slowly, "written by a man named Romulous DeCuva. I've never heard about it."

Harry looked up again with sleepy green eyes, the ropes were still the only thing keeping him upright. His will to live was the only thing keeping him awake, but his answers were becoming less and less coherent, "That's because you're a muggle, non-magical person, and because we're in America. The library is somewhere in Scotland. I don't know where, only the Headmaster knows, but he's a big idiot. He let me get kidnapped, he let Not-Moody pretend to be Moody," He squinted in concentration, "He left me with the Dursley's, left me to die. I should have died." Harry felt his gut well up with shame and anger and he was saying far too much, but he was tired.

Harry was so tired, from everything that had been happening that year. The Tri-Wizard Tournament, trying to keep his grades up and his friends happy, and then the final task. His mask of strength began to quiver under the pressure of his emotions as he thought of Cedric - dead Cedric. The magic that he wasn't supposed to know about being shoved into the ground while he drew more power from the moon to aid in his escape, and because he was dabbling in magic he wasn't suppose to the demon had found him. The demon rode his body all the way to the bloody United States, violating him all along the way.

"Are you going to try to kill us?" The elderly man spoke up again, his blue eyes were starting to look more worried then suspicious. The look of pity was also back, but Harry could no longer find the strength to glare back. He set the book to the side, on a pile of books that looked just as old, and stepped into the circle. The men tensed up as if they were waiting for something to happen, and when nothing did he took another step closer to Harry.

"No Professor, I don't eat people. Vampires eat people, so do werewolves -but Remy took his potion, and he always remembers to lock himself up. Fenrir will eat people, he likes children -that's why Remy is all woo-" he ended with a light howl, and then chocked on another sob. "It's my fault Cedric is dead though, I killed him. He went to the graveyard together, because I had no right to win. I'm sorry Cedric, we should have looked both ways." Harry was out like a light, his head slumped forward and his breathing hitched before it evened out.

Bobby circled around the boy and undid the intricate note in the back quickly. The kid was a danger, but he was still just a boy. They should be safe enough if they tie him down in a bed, and maybe draw a salt line around him. John still had the shot gun aimed at the kid, just in case he was faking it. You never knew with witches, they were a devious lot that took any means to reach an end.

"What do you think?" Bobby asked first as he leant down to untie the kid's legs. He remembered the unexpected thinness of his ankles as he cut the right length of rope, then the clench in his gut as they wrapped it around his torso and they came to understand just how skinny the kid was.

"What the hell was with those rocks?" were the first words out of John Winchesters mouth, said in such gruff tone that made Bobby want to roll his eyes. He hadn't answered the question at all, because the true answer was something he didn't like. Bobby understood though, it was hard to hate some kid who looked so pathetic and innocent.

"From what it looked like was all bloodstone, crystal quartz, moonstone, and some obsidian." He explained as he hoisted the skinny brat over his shoulder in a fireman hold and headed for the stairs. He had a guest room with a clean floor that could be used to draw some sort of witches trap or some other runes to contain him. "They all got some healing or protection traits, he probably used 'em to trap the demon or something, if he's speaking the truth."

John grunted in response, but followed his friend up the stairs with a large back of salt in hand. Bobby didn't even have to ask him; all hunters had salt, it was the very essential things that all hunters took with them, everywhere they went. In this case they would make a ring around the kid to keep him from getting anywhere, hopefully all of that mumbo jumbo he was speaking wouldn't make him immune to it.

They walked silently to the second bedroom and laid the kid down on the old bed. Bobby went through the motions of taking off the kid's shoes and jacket, like he'd done with John's kids when they were little, but some thing stopped him. Along the length of his right arm was a deep gash that looked red and angry, and couldn't be more than a week old. "Winchester," he huffed, catching the other man's attention, "I need the first-aid kit from the bathroom," he said plainly, taking off the rest of the kid's jacket.

"Why don't you go get it then," the other man replied, his voice was full of sarcasm, and they both knew well that he didn't appreciate being told what to do. He'd meant it to, because he'd gone right back to pouring the salt line and ignoring the other man.

Bobby rolled his eyes, but left the room to find the first-aid kit across the hall, on second thought he would also need some towels and some clean water, the kid was a right mess. His clothes were also filthy, and he made a side trip to storage closet to get some older clothes that used to belong to John's boys.

When he did finally get everything he thought he would need he returned to the room. John had finished the salt line and was inspecting the boy. He'd taken off the kid's socks and thin t-shirt and was looking for any more injuries, something had stopped him and he was staring at something intensely. "What'd you find?" Bobby asked, setting everything at the end of the bed.

He walked to the other side of the bed and followed John's line of vision until he saw it -barely. His old eyes were having a tough time making out the light brown lines across one of the kid's protruding hip bones, but once he noticed it the thing became almost as clear as day. The lines were steadily darkening in color, but it was a pentagram none the less. Whatever this kid was his body was naturally finding a way to protect himself, that little sign would keep him from ever being possessed again and help keep some of the lesser demon's from coming too close.

"Well, I'll be damned," Bobby said stiffly, the light brown of the kid's new body-mark was quickly reaching a chestnut color. He wanted to continue to stare at the mark as it got darker, but they both had things that needed to get done. He grabbed a rag from the end of the bed, John grabbed the other, and they both began the job of tending the boy. They were both trying to forget his _little_ _differences_, but at the same time they were still aware of the salt line and the holy water was still within reach.

There were several questions on both of their minds, and Bobby already had a long list of things he wanted to ask. John was in a much similar state, and it was his job to come up with questions that Bobby didn't and vice-versa. They wouldn't be getting any answers though, not until the boy woke up and then they could start the interrogation all over again.

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**To Those Who Just Read:**

Chapter three will be written just as soon as I finish this one…it won't be posted for a couple of more day's though.

The Latin in this chapter is shit, and I know this. I've never taken Latin though, so I looked it up online. The stone information is also mostly correct, but as Bobby is a specialist in demon's I'm sure don't expect him to spend a lot of time looking up the most specific meanings of certain healing stones.

I forget what I was going to say…Oh, right -more questions will be answered in the next chapter. Please be patient, but also feel free to ask the questions this chapter has left you. I'll try my best to answer them in the next chapter.

I like quotes and reviews,

Alzipher


	3. Chapter 3

**To the Masses:** Chapter three so soon? Yes, I think so. I really should work on RUV, but I'm having so much fun with this one…Oh,

Harry: Fourteen years old  
Sam: Nineteen years old  
Dean: Twenty-three years old; gosh that makes him a bit of a cradle-robber and a pedo, doesn't it?  
Bobby & John: Prehistoric.

Warnings: OOC, AU, Slash (Harry/Dean, duh), bad grammar, choppy concepts, child abuse, sexual abuse, grumpy old men, chick-flick moments, leaves more questions than answers, so on and so forth.

Disclaimer: I don't own.

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**Chapter Three**

_'The test of morality of a society is what it does for it's children,' Dietrich Bonheoffer. _

It was John Winchester's turn to keep an eye on the nameless witch-child, and he sat diligently. At least for the first few minutes, but he quickly began to doze. Stress and the events of that day were quickly catching up to him, and he was becoming more and more tired in his age. His gun was still held in a vice-like grip, his shoulders were still tense, and he was never less than fully aware. He sat in an old, worn out chair in the corner of the room. From where he sat he could see all of possible exits as well as the witch-child, which is why he'd chosen that specific corner.

It was his second turn to watch, and in the early hours of the morning. Bobby had already done two of his own shifts, keeping watch in the exact same chair for four hours. Then it had been John's turn, and then it was Bobby's again. When they weren't watching the child with stress and paranoia they were downstairs, trying their damned hardest to find merit in anything the kid told them.

Dean Winchester, John's eldest son was supposed to be joining them later that morning with breakfast in tow, as he was clearly instructed to do. He would aid in keeping the witch-child confined until they could think of something better to do. Dean would probably be exempt form the research part though, because he was honestly no good in those sort of things. His little bother, Sam had always been the one to do the heavy research.

John was content to wallow in his half-formed thoughts and sleepy mind, but a sound roused him. While clenching his gun tighter he looked up, and immediately his arm went up to aim. A single rock-salt round could scare the ghost away, but something kept him from pulling that trigger.

Big green eyes caught John off guard, and he almost lowered his gun. They weren't the same as Mary's though, but they weren't all that different, he thought as he stared at the ghost.

He took his her whole appearance first; the white dress and bare feet, her deep red hair, perfect green eyes. Quickly his brain scrambled to identify her as a Woman in White, a ghost who was born of a mother who had taken the life from her offspring. She was staring down at the boy in the bed, but she couldn't get any closer than that because of the salt line. There were emotions in her translucent eyes, a combination of everything a mother could possibly feel as she watched the injured child. She wasn't paying any attention to John, not until he cocked the shot gun.

The woman turned abruptly and her face lit up in rage, "You put that gun down right now John Winchester," she words were clipped and annunciated with an Irish accent, "she said we would have our hands full with you," the young woman continued on.

John didn't lower his shotgun, and spoke with a flat tone, "Who are you?" His dreariness was gone and his instincts were taking over. His hazel eyes shifted from door to window without loosing sight of the woman with red hair, but she wasn't paying attention to him any longer.

The woman had turned back to the witch-child who was laying in the bed and was looking at him with such longing and sadness. John couldn't really blame her; the kid looked downright pathetic and something about him just screamed to be hugged. Both hunters had tried their best to clean him up and dress him properly, but even the smallest pair of clothes they found looked at least three sizes too big. They'd settled on one of Dean's old t-shirts and a pair of faded jeans, and despite the fact that John's kids had outgrown them around the time they were seventeen, they made him look even smaller.

The woman didn't answer, but there really wasn't any time. A second later another spirit came through the door and John immediately stood and aimed, thinking this additional specter might not be as placid as the woman with red hair -and he wasn't.

The second ghost was a man, short in comparison to John but he stood with good posture. He wasn't calm by any means and he wore a half-crazed look on his face. The messy hair and flailing arms didn't help his case much either. One look at the woman though, and he clamed right down.

John split his attention for as long as he could afford to determine what had stopped the ghost. The woman with the red hair was glaring with all her might, and it was an expression, John was surprised to realize, was one he'd seen Mary have before. It was something along the lines of 'Don't you dare wake this baby up, or it'll be your balls,' and it seemed to have been enough to stop the messy haired ghost in his tracks.

Bobby came barreling into the room a moment later, looking flustered and a bit unsure. His own pistol was automatically pointed at the man, but wavered a bit when he caught sight of the woman. It was just a long and fun night full of tormenting confusion for the two hunters.

"What the hell is going on here?" Bobby demanded, "This 'un here just appeared out of nowhere and declared that he was an all powerful wizard who was going to see his baby no matter what. Then took off up the stairs muttering some nonsense about a Dark Lord something or another." The eldest of them all was at his wits end, and John could tell because of the huffy way he was breathing and the hold he had on his gun. Bobby was getting ready to shoot someone or something out of frustration, and John was just happy there were ghosts around this time. That at least meant that John was lower on the list of possible victims.

"James Potter," the woman hissed under her breath, "I told you to explain things properly." She had straitened her posture and stalked towards the man named James, waving an index finger while she chastised him. "We talked about this before we left; 'I am a wizard and he is my child,' is _not_ an acceptable explanation. Neither is 'I am the overlord of chocolate and I'll do as I wish,' or 'do you want to see a magic trick,' and then running off."

"I'm sorry Lilly-flower," he practically squeaked, "But you got to be up here, and I had to be down there, and Harry is just so cute," and the man just continued to rant on in harsh whispers. He made his way over to the protective circle and toed the line of salt, still muttering to himself over this and that. As soon as he caught sight of the boy his eyes became just as sad and the speed at which he was spewing nonsense dramatically quickened.

The woman shook her head at the antics, but her expression had saddened dramatically. "We won't hurt you, so you can lower your weapons, and I am very sorry. My husband is a bit of a drama queen, and I'm afraid some things don't change after death," she said with genuine apathy. It seemed that when she wasn't angry or annoyed her accent softened and sounded more British, but neither men knew her well enough to judge that.

Both hunters continued to look on with expressions of utter disbelieve, having never seen ghosts act so oddly. The ghosts they usually had experience with were vengeful and homicidal. These two semi-translucent spirits seemed odd, but mostly harmless, and obsessed over the boy in the bed. Their blood pressure was rising in stress, and Bobby was nearly overcome with the urge to ask question after question, but he was holding back in case the ghosts turned on a dime and attacked.

"Oh," she said as if she suddenly realized something, "Mary said it would be best to start off bluntly, and we've only made room for questions." She was no longer paying direct attention to them, and simply speaking while she watched the man and the witch-child.

The casual way she said the name was enough to enrage both Hunters, but John even more so. It wasn't uncommon for some monsters to evoke her name if it meant they could hurt him. He clenched his gun tighter and repeated his earlier question, "Who the hell are you?"

"My name is Lily Potter. James is my husband and Harry is our child," her voice was soft and worried. She didn't elaborate for a long moment, but she did get around to it, "James and I died thirteen years ago, leaving our child in the care of my sister -Petunia. It was possibly the worst choice Albus Dumbledore has ever made, but there was nothing we could do. Will you let me tell you our story?"

It sounded a bit cliché to their ears, but sometimes that's all a ghost needed -a good talk. It never seemed to help either of them, but there were a few stories floating around. Things like death-echo's could be shocked out of their cycle once they realized they were dead. Sometimes a ghost would learn of their murders death and decide to stop haunting, and there are even some cases were a ghost became bored and would just leave. They did what logic deemed acceptable and nodded, but neither men lowered their guns.

Two hours later and Lily was done with her history lesson. She didn't get away with telling the entire history of the Wizarding world, but the basics and then little things that seemed important. She included what she knew about the Dark Lord Voldemort, including the vague reason why no one spoke his name. By the end she was standing next to her husband (who had stopped his insane chatter, thankfully), and he even filled in parts of the story that his wife had missed. James Potter was even so kind as to keep his wife from going into further detail of completely trivial things, like the history of Hogwarts and it's connection to Chocolate Frogs (that actually moved).

John had actually lowered his weapon near the beginning, once Lily explained meeting Mary at something called a 'Mother's Who Sacrifice Themselves Convention,' whatever the hell that was. From there it went all downhill, and by the time they were finished he'd fallen back into his seat and was just staring in disbelief.

"So you're sayin' all of those things the kid was sprouting were true?" Bobby asked while he was trying to rub the tired out of his eyes. It obviously wasn't working, and it was nearly a whole twenty four hours since he'd last slept. John had probably reached that mile stone already, which only made Bobby worry more.

"About earth magic and lae lines?" James asked. They'd gotten around to talking about what happened to the demon, but the men still weren't comfortable with talking to a ghost and didn't elaborate as much as they could have. "I honestly wouldn't know," he continued with a shrug, "I may have done a lot of potentially illegal things while at school, but never have I even thought about breaking into the restricted section. Of all of the productive things he could manage with the invisibility cloak, and the map, and his own potential and he decides to _read_."

"Well I think it's wonderful," Lily was glaring at her husband again, which the hunters supposed was a sign of affection but they weren't very sure. "I don't know either, sadly," and it was her turn to shrug, "Like all things about Hogwarts, the restricted section has a mind of it's own. I was lucky to step two or three feet into it without permission before I was forced out again. That Harry can actually pull books off of a shelf without the consent of the librarian is simply amazing."

"He's full of surprises," James added, "But you'll probably see for yourselves soon enough."

"What do you mean?" John questioned while he wondered what those crazy ghosts would be talking about next. It should have been enough that two full grown men were supposed to accept a completely different society, composed of magic, and accept that they weren't evil. The claim that ghosts had latched onto a Reaper just to come back from the afterlife to tell them all of this, it was nothing short of baffling.

"Bobby Singer," as the woman spoke Bobby looked directly at her. His glare was daring her to tell him something he didn't want to know, but she didn't seem to notice. Maybe that's because her own nasty looks were potentially life changing, and could make a grown man feel like a toddler, "James and I don't have much more time before the Reaper finds out about us. There is reason why we came back, and seeing Harry in person was just the bonus."

"A wicked bonus, I would say," James added, his grin was mischievous and a little worrisome. He earned the right to do his impression of the Cheshire cat though, because it was his plan that had made it possible for them to return from their afterlife. "I also say we do it again in another few years, and see how our baby is growing! I figure he'll finally get taller now that he's not being starved by that disgusting piece of trash. Oh, I hear-by vote that all Petunia flowers be torched on sight until they're none left in his world."

"Rejected," Lily said casually, her arms were crossed and her stare was penetrating. "I'm just as angry as you are over what my sister did to him, but it wouldn't do the world any good if there were no more Alaglise Petunia's. They're used in the Auctus potion, you know. That was what Remy used to re-grow your skin, after you and Sirius decided it would be a fun idea to play with Fiendfire." Her words suggested it hadn't been such a good idea after all, and her tone suggested it was a learning experience, but both hunters were slightly amused. After all, John's children learned not to play with fire of any kind when Dean was still in diapers, so how old did James and his friend have to be to learn their lesson?

"What we're trying to say," James continued on while ignoring his wife, "Is that we would like you to take Harry in and give him the life we never could. We know it's a lot, but anything is better than letting him return to Britain and the Dursley's."

Lily nodded in agreement, "You have the means to give him a new name, a separate identity that will help you hide him from Dumbledore and others who would only use him. It's Harry's chance to be someone other than the Boy-Who-Lived." John opened his mouth as if it argue the point, but Lily continued before he could speak, "I was told you would be reluctant, and we would as well if we were in your position. You have to understand though, that there is no going back for Harry. He already knows of magic and demons and the hardships in life."

"He'll be a pillar of knowledge too, if he's anything like his mum," James said with a grin, but it faltered quickly, "We'll have to go soon if we're going to talk to Siri before that Reaper woman finds us." He took a step back from his child and a sadness coated his disposition that wasn't lost on Bobby or John.

"That was all a nice and fancy story," Bobby spoke up, "But why should we still believe you. What if this is all just something that witch-child cooked up and put in our heads."

"That's not entirely impossible," Lily agreed, "especially for someone with Harry's power, but he has nearly no control. I can't ask you to trust us, because you can't. We understand that because we've been part of a war, and it wasn't inconceivable for a person to take on someone else's appearance.

'There is a book you can pick up that might help. It was published as muggle fiction, and to my knowledge it became somewhat popular in late eighties. The War of Wizards by James Evans, and I admit it's not the most creative pseudonym I could have chosen. I know it doesn't make anything we've told you true, or convince you that Harry didn't just put this in your heads, but it _will _help in the long run. There are also other books that Harry could get for you because of his magical lineage. You'll have to ask him to owl the goblins, and tell him that they'll procure anything he asks -for a price."

"Now the hard part," James said uncertainly. There was a long and awkward silence that permeated the room before he continued, "you see, pureblood families are around long enough to form magical traits of their own. There's also a high chance that he'll never have sex with a woman so long as he has anything to say about it, not after what that Dursley woman did to him. Well," He paused again and looked around with wild eyes, "Merlin be damned! Harry could conceive a child of his own. Medically it's impossible -I know, but magically he could have a child with another man -so keep those filthy beasts away from our baby!"

"The hell he can," John shouted just as quickly, slamming his fist against the arm of the chair. He didn't believe _that_ for one stinking second. Not even after everything he's seen; vampires, werewolves, striga's. There was just no way anything with a dick could carry and give birth to a child.

Lily looked more amused than anything as she gazed at her husband, who had started a wholly entertaining rant about the purities of his child and the possibility of unfit suitors. She turned her attention to the hunters, "It's true. There's a text you'll need to request, Magical Medleys of Ancient and Noble Families. The goblins will know which to get, and you don't need to worry about the finances -Harry has his own."

"Hold up just one cotton pickin' minute!" Bobby interrupted, "You want us to take in a witch-child, who you claim is a savior, raise him, tell him about the magical birds and bees, and then what?" Bobby's confusion was becoming to much to bare, and both he and John had staid quite for too long. They each had questions they wanted answers to, but these talkative ghosts weren't giving them any space.

James nodded in response, but it was Lily who did her best to placate them, "We are sorry this is so confusing, and we really are almost out of time. You'll have to ask Harry your questions when he wakes up, which shouldn't be too long after we leave. We have been keeping him asleep, but just barely. He'll remember this conversation as a dream, but if he were awake we wouldn't have been able to tell you half as much. He's proven to be a very secretive person, as far as we can tell."

James nodded his messy head once again, "It would probably have been a lot like pulling teeth. We're not really sorry to push this one you either, but it's either this or he returns to Hogwarts only to be used by greedy officials. Staying here isn't all that much safer, but we think he'll grow on you. Sort of like that rainbow fungus we put in Dumbledore's sock collection."

"Darling," Lily interrupted, "We really do need to be going if we're going to talk to Sirius before that Reaper tracks us down." She turned away form the two Hunters that she had entrusted her son with and turned back to her baby. "Harry, please do your best and remember that we love you."

"Yeah kid, and we'll be proud of you even if you marry some serious, fancy-pants working bloke who wouldn't know a joke if it bit him in the arse," James added joyfully.

Together they stood outside of the salt circle with their fingers intertwined, just staring at their precious child. Slowly, they turned to John and Bobby. "Thank you," Lily said, "even though we didn't give you much of a choice, but trust us when we say that it'll all work out in the end." With those parting words both ghosts disappeared in wisps of grey smoke.

"What the hell?" Were John's first words, just as soon as the ghosts had left. He instantly turned to Bobby, who had proved time and time again to be the wiser of the two, and waited for him to share his thoughts.

"What the hell did you get us into this time, Winchester?" Bobby snapped, because they both new whenever shit got too weird that it was always John's fault. He crossed the room in anger and stepped over the salt line, without waiting for his friends reply.

"What do you mean get 'us' into. He's your new kid," was the frustrated reply, "That woman said your name before they foisted their boy-daughter off." John crossed his arms childishly, but didn't continue on a rant. Lord knew they'd had enough of that from the ghost of James Potter, that man had maternal instincts that were more vicious than a hungry bear.

"'M not a boy-daughter," came a grumbled reply from the bed.

Bobby bent over to survey the kid, as the child in question cracked open sleepy green eyes. They stared right at the man with some unknown emotion, and Bobby just stared back down at him. In just a single day the kid had been through so much, but he wasn't looking up in the same world-weariness that most hunters would have. Bobby would even go so far as to say the kid looked content.

"You awake you little knucklehead," Bobby observed, "how much did you hear?" They needed to know if he'd realized his parents spirits had paid a little visit and how much they would have to explain.

"I was aware of it all, I think," Harry replied, "They were right, you know. I wouldn't have explained any of it to you in the straight forward way that my parents did." Bobby stared at the kid as he admitted he would have been hard to handle, and he wondered if the child would have broken down at all during an interrogation. "I don't really understand why they had to tell you all of that, though."

"What did she mean by goblins?" was, of course John's first question. He'd never heard of them before, at least not outside of child's tales and fantasy novels. He knew that vampires and ghosts existed, amongst some of the other things that he hunted. Never in all of his years of hunting, did he come across evidence of actual goblins.

"Yeah, uh," Harry searched for a way to explain, "they run the banks in the Wizarding world, because they're the most vicious when it comes to guarding money. They're independent from the Ministry and Hogwarts, so they won't be telling anyone that I'm hear. From what mum explained, there also doesn't seem to be any sort of governing body of the magical or supernatural things here in the states, so that's another thing I don't have to worry about."

"Why would you worry if there was a Ministry here?" Bobby demanded as he went about helping Harry sit up. When they achieved that much he pulled Harry's forearm to inspect the bandage and ignored the brief struggling against his grip.

"I used magic before I turned seventeen, and the cleaning ritual I used wasn't exactly legal either," Harry muttered. He shuddered as he remembered the feel of his magic after it had been cleansed of the demon and the extra bit of Voldemort's soul. "I'm sorry," he added in the same low voice.

"What fer?" Bobby questioned. He seemed to have fallen back into the role of extra parent, just as he had when Dean and Sam were kids. It wasn't completely foreign to him, but at the same time he was fighting with the urge to completely accept the magical child.

Harry looked at him with big green eyes and pulled his arm away before he continued, "for bringing this all upon you, for the demon, and the magic, and then my parents returned as ghosts and that much have been very uncomfortable. Erg, and I used your stones without your permission and now they're no good. I'll pay you back."

"Didn't your parents returning as ghosts make you uncomfortable too?" John asked. He hadn't really moved from his seat, and had resumed his guard duty as Bobby fussed over his injuries.

"Not really. Hogwarts has a lot of ghosts, and they're not really all that bad. Peeves is a touch too intense, but he's more of a poltergeist. That's one spirit I wouldn't mid shooting with those salt rounds of yours," Harry waved them off absently and pulled his arm away Bobby. He was trying to get out of bed on his own, when he stopped and realized that the clothing he was wearing wasn't his own. They seemed to have made him uncomfortable, if the way he shuffled his feet and picked at the shirt was any indication. "Thank you. I'm sorry I haven't say so earlier."

Both men ignored his thanks, because it was both uncomfortable and unneeded. John did continue on with his questioning, even as Harry struggled to stand. "How do you know what I loaded my gun with?" it came out as a growl that made the small boy cringe.

"I'm sorry, my magic likes salt the most. It has the best purification properties, but I didn't mean to use my magic. Honest! It just seems to be seeping out on it's own. It's like it's stronger now, and I don't know why." His voice was steadily rising in pitch as he became more unsure of himself and self conscious.

"Don't worry about it for now, kid," Bobby sighed, "We'll see if any of the books I have downstairs will help and then you can get in contact with those goblins your mom was talking about." It sounded like a decent plan, and Harry nodded in agreement. Although he had some serious doubt as to whether any muggle book could help him, not after all of the things he'd done in the past week or so. "Now there was something that's not been all that clear," he would have continued, but John seemed fit to interrupted him with a snort of disbelief.

"The whole damned situation is one big mess of half-truths and other things that aren't all that clear," he bit out.

"Yeah well, shut up," Bobby told him plainly, "Now she never mentioned how you came about being possessed by a demon, or anything that happened after you got sent to your aunt's. Other than what the demon said, if that was even true."

He was probing for information and to assess just how screwed up he was, Harry realized, but he gave no outward indication of his conclusion. The possession was the lesser of two evils, and what the men would be most concerned with, considering their nature and openness to some of the more otherworldly things. He first explained the tournament and how he came to be a part of it, including his suspicions of Professor Moody and Dumbledore's own ignorance. He breezed over the gossip, like Hermione and Viktor's relationship, and tried his best to stick to the facts.

When they reached the ritual in the graveyard was where things were getting confusing. "What did you notice about this ritual," Bobby had asked with interest. He had finally found some ground on which he was comfortable with.

"From what I could tell it was brewed on hollowed ground underneath a full moon. It was in a size twenty or twenty-two cauldron, which I suppose is around the size of a bathtub. It called for the bone of the father, blood of the enemy, and flesh of the servant. I'm not sure if there were any incantations to it, I couldn't exactly hear. I remember the blood had to be pure, and I had thought Wormtail was using a silver knife. It might take a while to know for certain," Harry tried his best to explain, making not of all of his observations. He spoke in a flat tone, trying to distance himself from that night and Cedric's death. It didn't seem to be helping, because he could still feel the anguish inside of him and the wrenching in his gut.

"Why?" John asked simply. His mind was turning over the facts he knew about silver and the things that couldn't survive it. There were things such as shape shifters and werewolves, but to know for certain the kid still needed to answer his question.

"I heal rather quickly from silver," Harry ran a hand through his brittle black hair and looked between the two men to continue. He wasn't certain how much each of them would understand, but he could at least try. These men were taking him and he it was all he could think about to keep himself from reverting to vague answers and lies. "From most metals, actually. My magic is quick to heal anything short of a wound made by a cursed artifact."

"A cursed artifact," John repeated, "you mean something a spirit is attached to?" Things were becoming more clear to each men as Harry tired his best to explain.

Harry simply shrugged, "I suppose. I'm not very familiar with those types. Really I mean something that a witch or a wizard has placed a curse upon. The most common in the nineteenth century was a flesh melting curse, but I'm not sure how that incantation would work. I wasn't very fond of that book."

"What book was that kid?" Bobby asked almost automatically. It was John's turn to roll his eyes at the predictable interest that Singer had shown in regards to any piece of literature that had been mentioned during that whole day. In fact, Bobby had spent a solid two hours trying to track down the book that Harry had mentioned in his earlier state, and was taking mental notes of any other text mentioned.

"Oddly enough it was called 'Fashions of the Nineteenth Century,' and I had wondered why a book like that would be in the restricted section," his tone was somewhat amused, "Then again I came across a book called 'One Hundred and Fourteen Werewolf Recipes,' thinking I could cook some things for a friend of mine, not _out_ of that friend." Harry paused and sent a weak glare at Bobby, "And don't call me kid, my name is Harry."

"Not while you're here kid, you'll need some pseudonym or those folks across the pond will find ya," Bobby replied, "you can take my last name while your at it, and it'll relieve some of the confusion when you start school."

"I'm going to start school? A non-magical school?" Harry visibly paled at the thought. He wasn't only worried because he was five years behind in most subjects, even more when it came to history. It was because his years in public schools weren't very _healthy_. Certain memories of 'Harry Hunting' were pushed forward into his mind, as well as his several bouts of accidental magic. Both of those resulting in bruises and occasionally something worse.

"I think you're missing something, Singer," John bit out, "the kid mentioned something about being friends with a werewolf." It was said in a tone that was meant to inspire some action, like hunting down this friend and empting a clip of sliver into it's head.

"Yeah, so?" Harry challenged, "Remy is a good person, and he's only forgotten to take his potion just once since he started. That wasn't even his fault, and I'll have you know what even if he couldn't' take his Wolfsbane potion he would still make sure to lock himself up every full moon, and Siri would be there to help him through it all. There's certainly no way that I would ever kill Remy and make him into roast wolf, even if the recipe for the potatoes did sound like a good side dish."

"That's the second time you've mentioned this friend and his potion," John growled out, and Harry flinched at his tone before he could stop himself. It didn't escape Bobby's notice that John made an effort to sound nicer after seeing that, "It doesn't matter if your friend is a good person or not, he still turns into a monster once a month."

"Honestly," Harry crossed his arms and looked down, he was becoming less and less comfortable with the questions and feeling an obligation to answer them. "The Wolfsbane potion allows the man to stay better connected to his human self during the full moon. He doesn't go about attacking people just because the tides are high."

John had his counter argument ready, but was stopped at the sound of a familiar engine. Familiar because it used to be his care that made that noise, and now belonged to his eldest son. It seemed Dean had arrived with breakfast for four, and the young man probably wanted answers of his own. "Later," John huffed, much like him and Harry had been doing through most of their debate, "breakfast his here."

"Oh," Harry's mood changed just a fraction, and his bit his bottom lip in worry. The possibility of food unnerved him a bit, and he wasn't sure what he was supposed to do. Surely they meant that _their_ breakfast was there and Harry wondered what he should do in the mean time.

Both men were at the door when a shout rang out from downstairs, "Dad, Bobby! Foods here, and so am I!" the deep voice boomed throughout the whole house. John would deny it if someone were to point it out, but his face lit up in amusement at his oldest son's antics.

The younger of the two hunters left first, but Bobby had been waiting for Harry to move and follow. "You coming kid?" he asked from the doorway.

"I really need a name," Harry muttered and let his mind wonder off to a hundred different names and words that he could use, thinking of almost anything that began with 'H,' that would compliment his new last name. He felt a pang of sadness when he thought of no longer being called 'Potter,' but it didn't take him long to get over it. People that hated him always referred to him as 'Potter,' like Snape and the Dursley's. Being a Singer could be a nice change, he thought as he shuffled towards the bedroom door.

* * *

**To Those Who Just Read:**

I don't much care for this chapter. I like Lily and James, but I didn't like the flat characterization of John and Bobby through most of the chapter.

A thanks to everyone who reviewed. People who I couldn't reply to in private messages; Laval, Nathan, LelaRo, A Kira, and joniskpelare.

My recommendations for anyone who likes this pairing are still at the end of chapter one.

I like quotes and reviews,

**Alzipher**


	4. Chapter 4

**To the Masses:** Now that I've got the majority of the reviews out of the way, I present to your chapter four. Like I told a few other people, I have a 'flat characters die a horrible and painful death,' rule…so here's to John and Bobby growing a personality -crosses fingers-

Warnings: OOC, AU, Slash, mentions of abuse, mentions of sexual abuse, -inhales-, Manipulative Dumbledore (most likely), choppy concepts, awkward sentence structures, Cunning Harry, inspires more questions and answers, underage drinking, underage smoking, cradle robbing, other illegal things, at this point I'm just adding crap, and more to be added in later chapters.

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or Harry Potter, so there.

* * *

**Chapter Four**

_'Eagles may soar, but weasels don't get stuck in jet engines,' anon. _

Harry took his time going down the stairs so that he could think in partial secrecy. He really didn't want anyone to know more about him than they already did, he felt safe that way. Still, he knew that there were things they would explain to John Winchester's son and other things they would leave up to him to explain to them all. He would have to come up with believable alternatives to the truth as well as a new name, preferable something that wasn't to far from the truth. He ran his fingers along the old wallpaper as he descended the rest of the stairs and found himself in a familiar library.

At least it sort of resembled a library, and the massive amounts of books were a big clue. It was also the room he woke up in, after a week of being a demon's play thing. Harry shuddered at the memories of Tannin in his mind, and what he'd done to his body. He still didn't get the shower-slash-cleansing ritual that he wanted, but he promised himself it would happen soon.

Harry pushed those thoughts away and surveyed what he could of the room. He expected he'd be living there for the foreseeable future, and wanted to take in as much of his surroundings as he could.

As he expected, the pile of dishes were still where he'd last seen them, and they were still covered in dust. Books were still piled high and shoved into several nooks and crannies, and where there weren't books there were weapons or miscellaneous objects of the occult. Harry recalled what had caused this mess his life had become and looked around to find the holes he'd caused. He honestly never meant for stones to come flying out of drawers and off of shelves when they did, but when he started to think about it, it wouldn't have been much better if he'd found the raw materials in the ground and brought them through the hardwood floor.

"What are you lollygagging around for, kid?" Bobby said from the doorway. Behind him John and his son were already talking in deep voices, and to Harry it sounded like the younger man was giving some sort of report. He could make out the words 'ganked' and 'mofo,' but Harry wasn't familiar with those terms.

Harry thought about how to reply while looking around the room, from the dirty fireplace to the grime covered window. "Harley," He said suddenly, turning his attention back to Bobby. Sirius owned a Harley Davidson, although Harry wasn't sure which model. He was pretty sure the ability to fly wasn't an original feature either, but it only made Sirius more fond of the black hunk of metal. "My name is Harley," he tried to say it as if he actually believed it, "not kid."

Bobby rocked forward on his toes, nodded, and then stepped into the room. "Alright then. At least that's all figured out, and it's less likely to get you an ass kicking than some of the stuff I thought you'd come up with," he spoke casually, "now come on and get something to eat, and meet Dean."

"Yes sir," Harry said with as much gratitude he could muster. It wasn't every day he got to eat, at least not while he was outside of Hogwarts. Harry wasn't really sure how normal families worked, but he was sure it wouldn't be like living at the Dursley's. Harry also hoped, with only a little guilt that it wouldn't be like the Weasley's either, because he wasn't sure if he could put away a mountain of food at each meal. In payment, Harry vowed to clean the house from top to bottom.

"None of that 'sir' nonsense. That's John's deal, and while we're at it -don't be letting either of them Winchesters push you around. You seem to be able to handle John some, but Dean's a whole 'nother can of worms," Bobby advised as he stood next to Harry. "What on earth are you lookin' around here for anyways?"

"The holes that I caused when my magic pulled your healing stones through your furniture," Harry said softly, "It's my fault and you're still letting me eat?" He looked down with a sudden interest in his bare feet, just as he would do if he'd violated Vernon's rule on magic. The confidence he'd had earlier had vanished and was replaced by a meek shadow of a boy.

Bobby was grateful that Harry's gaze was elsewhere, because he was very aware of the look of anger on his face. It wasn't directed at Harry, but at the knowledge of why this child was so god damned skinny. "Look kid," he coughed in his hand a bit, "Harley, you're still young and you're gonna mess up plenty, but you'll never be denied food while you're hear. Unless of course you're using that magic of yours to torture or kill people or raise a demon, and then we're just gonna shoot you -so food wouldn't really be an issue then either."

"I could never do that," Harry said with absolute conviction, "I don't even think my magic would let me, if I even tried. Which I haven't and would never want to." He did neglect to mention that he wasn't one to pass up an opportunity to cause a little mischief, but that didn't fall under torture or killing.

"We'll see," Bobby said passively, as if he didn't already believe his new witch-child. "Now get your skinny ass in the kitchen and get you something to eat. There are people that are starving in third world countries and I won't have you wastin' food."

Harley gave Bobby an odd look, but did what he was told. He really wished he hadn't, once he got a good look at the kitchen. He would rather have remained in ignorance for the rest of his life, and would have turned back if Bobby weren't standing right behind him, "Dear Merlin," he blurted, "do any of you even know what cleaning means?"

"Don't worry princess," were the first words Dean Winchester ever said to him, "a little mess never hurt anyone." It wasn't just Harley's imagination, that Dean sounded a little disappointed. He favoring of his disbelief coupled with a bit of regret about his vow to clean Bobby's house.

Ultimately it was the look of the kitchen that bothered Harley, so the princess commented was pushed to the side. "A _little_ mess?" he was doing a fair impression of his mother, Bobby and John ad to admit. They also worried that Harry would take after his father and start on a rant that would never end. He didn't, thank god. Instead he seemed at a loss for words as he stalked towards the breakfast table and fell into a chair.

Bobby soon followed and both he and John dug into their Styrofoam plates with tiny plastic forks. Neither of the men looked properly chastised, but rather amused, Harry noticed with a bit of annoyance. He couldn't even think about food when the whole room was possibly infected with a million different germs, not to mention rodents or spiders.

"Is that my shirt?" Dean suddenly asked, catching Harley's attention. The mess was pushed to the back of his mind for only a moment of embarrassment. He'd often heard those words, but from Seamus after a night of sleeping in someone else's bed. Harley never imagined they'd be directed at him, and was even more horrified at the images they conjured. "Looks better on you though," he continued, only adding to Harley's panic.

A snort from across the table caught Dean's attention, and Harley was left to deal with his reaction on his own. It didn't seem to last long when Harley looked down at his take-out plate and realized there was no utensil. Dean, who was paying an inappropriate amount of attention to Harley noticed the same thing and stood before anyone else could. "I'll get you a fork," he announced, as if he should win some sort of award for his effort.

Harley's glare followed the younger Winchester while he ignored the other men, who seemed to be leaking silent laughter. He was almost ridiculously suspicious of the young man and he was going through a mental list of muggle poisons. It was the only way to explain Dean's readiness to help him and the downright glee that John was exuding.

He was only brought out of his paranoid contemplations by the words, "Shit! Snake," shouted at the top of Dean's lungs, which only seemed to annoy Harley further. Dean had jumped back in alarm, reached under his shirt, and had actually pulled a gun on the sink.

"Don't be such a girl," was Harley immediately responded in a low growl. The gun certainly didn't sway his opinion, because he was already upset about a number of things. The mess for one, which was probably what attracted the snake to begin with.

"Yeah Dean," John added with the barest of grins.

"Put that gun away, you idjit. You won't be shooting anything in my house unless you're in danger, and you're not. It's just a snake," was Bobby's opinion. He didn't seem as amused anymore, and took another bite of his fast food.

His father's teasing and Bobby's insults only seemed to add to his embarrassment, but he returned to the gun to it's place under his shirt and sat back down at the breakfast table. "I'd like to see one of you deal with a killer snake," he muttered and then began to pout.

Harley could only roll his eyes at Dean's immature behavior, and then again at the apathy of the supposed adults. Each man returned to their meals and pretty much ignored the existence of a snake inside of Bobby's kitchen. He huffed again, which he seemed to be doing more since he entered the country, and stood abruptly. He nearly knocked his plate off of the table in his sudden movement, and caught the attention of the other men.

"Honestly," he bit out. The kitchen sink was only a few feet away, and he reached it before Dean could even stand. Harley had enough of the young man's sleazy attitude and, to be honest he was still a bit stressed from everything that had been happening. Something as simple as a snake should have been easy to handle, but no one had moved to correct the situation, and that certainly explained why the whole house was such a giant mess. They were clearly used to someone else picking up after them, and Harley wasn't used to leaving things in such a state, so it was obviously his new job.

Once he reached the edge of the sink he could hear the angry hissing, but he still couldn't see the snake. '_I'll bite you_,' it said angrily, adding a few choice words that weren't for innocent ears. Sometimes Harry could swear that he learned all of his best insults from snakes, and the occasional goblin. '_I may not have any venom, but it'll hurt like a sharp tail lashing_,' it ranted on as Harley continued his search for the little bugger.

He moved a dusty plate aside and the hissing could suddenly be heard through the rest of the kitchen. To amplify it's sound meant that the snake had to be close to something concave or funnel shaped, like a bowl or a cup. All three men had turned to look at Harley as he searched though the old dishes until he found it.

When Harley first caught sight of small scales he reached down and grabbed hold of it without any hesitation. The snake let out a hiss that could only be translated to an indignant squawk but wrapped around his wrist none the less. "It's just a corn snake," Harry announced as he pulled his arm out of the pile of dishes to show the other them the bright red and orange snake, "and you screamed," he added with a laugh.

"Dude, we're eating," Dean argued as Harley returned to the table with the snake still wrapped around his arm. He pushed his chair back and then to the side to get away from Harley and the reptile, dragging his plate with him.

"Does it scare you?" Harley taunted. He leaned back in his chair and grinned, and it was the kind of expression that narrowed his bright green eyes and filled a person with a sense of foreboding. Slowly and purposely he brought his hand up to his neck and schooled his expression as the snake unwound from his wrist and curled around his neck.

It circled around his throat twice before it found its tail and chucked, '_so warm_,' it crooned, '_I won't be biting you Mr. Warm-Skin, and we shall be friends._' Harley doubted that one very seriously.

If he were ever to contemplate adopting a snake it wouldn't be one so small and unintelligent. This one had a better vocabulary than most, but Harley had high standards. His ideal reptile would also have venom, or something else that it could trade for some warm mice and a nice place to stay. That is, if Bobby would allow him to keep a snake inside of his house. His chances looked good too, because the old man hadn't said a mean word about the corn snake around his neck, and actually looked like he was trying to hold in his laughter.

"It's gross," Dean snapped back. He had managed to push his chair against the wall a foot behind him, and was resting his cheap plate in his lap rather than on the table. His hazel eyes were large and frightened, and Harley was starting to feel a little bad about his tactics of revenge.

"So is this kitchen," He replied casually while picking up a small sausage with his fingers. He tore a piece off and offered it to the corn snake around his neck, who sucked it in greedily before devouring the rest of the meat himself.

"It's creepy," Dean tried again, stabbing his own pancakes with his plastic fork and shoving a large bite into his mouth. Harley had to fight not to grimace as he watched the youngest hunter chew his food like a cow.

"So is that spider dangling above your head," Harley lied, but it certainly paid off in the end.

Dean leapt forward with his plate in one hand and began batting at his hair with the other. Bobby had begun muttering in amusement as Dean's father did his vague impression of a smirk. Both of them had eyes on Dean as he turned around to look for the imaginary critter. Harley's own green eyes were intense and angry, and ready for Dean when he realized that the small witch-child had lied.

It didn't take long, and when he did realize there was no spider Dean's own glare met his own. "Do your parents know what at evil little bitch you are?" he asked in a dangerous voice. Harley wasn't swayed, he'd heard scarier tones before, one's that promised a beating or another round of 'Harry Hunting.' He didn't have to worry about either, as Bobby had told him not to let Dean push him around. Granted his actions would usually warrant a day or two locked in a small cupboard, he took comfort in his own abilities to escape and disappear into the wide open range of America.

"Do women know what you're overcompensating or is that a surprise once you reach the One-Night-Stand Motel?" he countered and the snake laughed, but the resulting hiss only added menace to his image.

"You're short," was Dean's following attempt at an insult. It actually gathered a rumbling of laughter from both older hunters, but whether they were laughing at his shitty reply or the fact that Harley was really short wasn't known.

Harley wouldn't admit it, but that little comment did upset him a bit. His height had always been an issue, as would be expected from someone starved as often as he had been. It wasn't as if anyone actually knew that though, and people usually just assume he'd be a late bloomer. Harley knew he wasn't though, because of the neglect. He was always going to be shorter than most of the blokes his age, and a large percentage of the girls as well.

"Aren't you just full of knowledge and maturity," Harley's grin turned into a sneer that would make Snape proud. Then he brought out the big metaphorical guns, "I hope you realize that you're arguing with a fourteen year old boy," and could literally see the way Dean's mind was straining to take in that information.

John had enough as he could take from the exchange. He knew what his son had seen in Bobby's new boy-daughter, and he had to admit that he would have thought the same if he hadn't been around since the beginning. Dean was looking at the small frame and big eyes and had automatically assumed he was dealing with petite woman, and the accent wasn't helping Harry's cause much either.

The elder Winchester just couldn't contain his amusement any longer, it was funny as hell that Dean had made such a boneheaded and colossal mistaken, and pissed off a powerful witch (excuse him -Wizard). He had to admit, when he first thought of his son in the same room as the kid he knew there were going to be problems, and he hoped he wouldn't have to shoot the child if he'd decided to pull out any of his magic tricks. The kid seemed to be able to handle himself pretty well. Sure, he was being pretty cruel, but it wasn't much different than a little boy chasing a girl around with a worm on a stick.

He had to get up and leave the room before he broke down and laughed his ass off. He didn't want to hurt Dean's feelings if he didn't have to, and his eldest child did have feelings -despite his tough attitude. John would even go as far as to say that Dean was more sensitive then his younger brother, who was often teased for being a cry-baby. Dean just knew how to hide things better, for instance his anger was being cleverly hidden behind shock.

"You're a dude?" John heard his son reiterate from the next room. He proudly managed to get to the front door in a few steps, but as soon as he'd stepped onto the front porch he let laughter go.

"Oh hell," Bobby exclaimed almost as soon as Dean spoke. He sent a look to Harley to silence him before he could explode and then another at Dean, both boys slunk back in their chairs. "Don't you to get into it now. Dean, you still got to take him to the store," he advised.

"What?" Dean shouted. There was no way in hell he wanted to drive the evil little bastard anywhere, let alone buy him something. Not after the snake thing, and the spider thing, and the whole not being a chick thing.

They were all trying to ignore the howling laughter from outside, and Bobby was doing the best so far. Harley's flush was steadily darkening as he picked up another sausage and nibbled at the end, as he wasn't sure if he should be insulted by the laughter or join in.

"Harley's gonna be stayin' here for a while and he's needing clothes. He can't just wear Sam and your old clothes, they make him look like a twig with arms," Bobby said, only making Harley more uncomfortable. Then he said as an afterthought, "you idjit," before standing.

Much to Harley's annoyance he had left his trash right where it was, and so had John. At least the howling from the porch had stopped, but now Harley could hear the men conversing in deep tones. He strained to her what they were talking about as he stood and collected the trash, and then began his futile search for a trashcan.

"Bloody hell," he hissed, "there aren't even any waste bags. What the hell do you do with your garbage?" He turned his eyes to Dean, who had returned to the table and was finishing off his plate. It was the closest thing to an apology that Harley was going to offer, and it was well received.

"We take it out back and burn it," Dean said without shame, even as he pushed his own plate aside and pulled Harley's unfinished breakfast towards him. "Are you going to finish this?"

"No," Harley waved him off. He wasn't paying attention either way, because he was still trying to hear what the two hunters were talking about.

A new idea popped into his head, and he turned around to see if Dean was paying any attention. He wasn't, so Harley raised a hand to gather the snake and began hissing orders in a hushed voice. The snake was a little shocked at first, but recovered quickly enough. He was smart enough to understand basic orders, and simple enough do what he was told without asking for anything in return. When he was done instructing the corn snake to eavesdrop from the porch, he set him down and watched him slither out of the room. He would collect the little reptile on the way out and receive his report then. All the while, Dean didn't seem to notice.

While they waited Harley fussed around the dirty room, leaving only to collect the pile of ancient dishes in the library that had been bothering him from the very beginning. He had to do without a few things, for instance there was no sponge or dish soap. Well, there was a sponge, but it was covered in a disgusting mold and Harley didn't really want to touch it with his bare hands. He managed to get the dishes stacked before Dean polished off his second breakfast, and then watched the man join his father and Bobby on the front porch.

He looked through the cabinets and the refrigerator and made of mental list of what they already had. It turned out that the only thing they kept stock was milk and beer. There were a couple of other drinks in some of the higher cabinets, but none of it amounted to much. He would have to ask Dean to stop by the market on the way back, if they would be going out at all. The young man seemed very reluctant to be in his presence. Harley was in a similar situation, as he still hadn't forgiven the idiot for mistaking him for a girl. He would have to think of a way to get Winchester back, at least while he was still upset about it.

"Hey kid," John hailed from the doorway. He stopped to see what the witch-child was up to, and was surprised to see the stacked dishes and two distinct piles of trash. One was a pile of burnable things, and the smaller pile was made up of things that would probably explode in a fire. He knew the little guy was bothered by the mess, but he didn't think the kid would do something about it. Since John spent so much time jumping from motel to motel it never really occurred to him to clean up after himself, not when there was room service and maids. He'd raised his sons much of the same way, and he was sure none of them knew how to use a sponge let alone apply it to a dirty plate.

"Harley," he corrected quickly, but was quickly reaching a panic level. "Was I not supposed to mess with anything in here? Dean didn't mention anything when I started, but I'm sorry if I've offended you or Bobby," he added at lightening speed.

"Don't worry about it kid," John smirked as he caught sight of the soft glare directed at the wall. Bobby had already discussed with him his theories on why the child was so obnoxiously skinny, as well as his attitude in general. The newly dubbed Harley seemed to be a little frightened of Bobby and John, but maybe that was because they had pointed guns at him. John wanted to say more on the subject, but it wasn't his place. "Dean'll be ready to take you out soon. Singer and I are just gonna catch up on some sleep," and then he launched into the ground rules.

It really surprised Harley how few, and odd they were. He was to stay with Dean at all times, and not to leave with strangers. If he saw anyone he recognized from the Wizarding world he was to signal Dean as subtly as possible, duck into a crowd, and meet Dean back at his car if they were to get separated. He was also to keep Dean from wondering off with random women, which threw Harley for a loop. He wasn't sure how he was going to accomplish the last, but he'd find a way.

John ended with, "and listen to Dean if things start going south," to which Harley nodded in understanding. These people dealt with otherworldly things, things that weren't nice or pleasant to be around. He could see it in the way Dean had handled his gun, the expertise that the John and Bobby had handled his possession, and the practiced care in which Bobby had tended to his injured arm.

Harley was clearly dismissed and retreated quickly to the room that he had slept in. If he recalled correctly then he would find his shoes there. To be honest with himself he just wanted to get the shopping over with, he was ashamed enough that he had to rely on others to provide him with what he needed. There was also the added fact that he didn't want to spend more time the younger Winchester than he needed to.

He was quick to get back downstairs and saw Bobby sitting down at the desk in front of the fire place. Harley stared at the top of his old trucker hat for a moment and wondered what he was supposed to say. "Don't worry about it Harley," Bobby said as he looked up from his book.

"There's no way you can tell what I was thinking," he replied defensively. What he didn't say was that while it was entirely possible for one person to read the mind of another, there was no way they could have gotten past his mental walls unnoticed. As inferior as his Occlumency was he would still be able to detect the brush of another mind against his own, in theory of course. He had to build the walls in his mind all on his own after he'd discovered a book about the mind arts in his third year, but there was no one around to test his limits.

"You don't have to be psychic to figure out you were trying to find something to say," Bobby puffed out his chest a bit, which Harley was beginning to understand mean that the older man had something important to say. "Which is what we told Dean you were, by the way. It would explain any of those accidental flares your parents spirits were talkin' about…and pick up some food before you come back, would you?"

"Of course," Harley replied, but his mind was a thousand miles away. Of course being a psychic would explain some of his paranormal inclinations, and his brain was working around different magical histories that he could use to fill in some of the blanks. While at the same time he was complaining a mental list of what they would need from the grocery store and which cleaning products were of top priority.

"Hurry up kid," Dean Winchester shouted from the front porch. Harley huffed and rolled his eyes, and hoped that he wouldn't also develop some sort of nervous twitch.

"You'll get used to him," Bobby offered, "and try and see if you can keep him from running off with some girl while he's supposed to be keeping an eye on you." Strange, it was the second time Harley had been given that order. He supposed it was because Dean had proven to have habit of doing just that.

"I'll see you later," Harley said with uncertainty, and then crossed his arms behind his back before walking away. Bobby looked up and analyzed the boy-daughter as he walked away. He had a natural grace that the demon had taken full advantage of, and practically glided out of the room. Bobby shook his head and just counted himself lucky, that grace was going to help the kid when learning his hand to hand combat.

Dean hadn't bothered to wait for him on the porch, but was already sitting behind the steering wheel of his black car. Harley wasn't sure which make or model it was, but from the looks of things he would probably be learning soon. The whole yard was littered with cars, some in stacks and some looked to be in the middle of repairs. He hadn't gotten to see anything when the demon had taken him inside of house before he could wake up, so it was his first good look at the terrain.

He was letting himself get distracted though, and pulled out of his thoughts to look for the little corn snake. He had been told to stay on the porch until Harley came to collect him, and had coiled around the leg of a wicker chair when he was finally found. "There you are," Harley hissed patiently, and bent down to pick him up. He could feel Dean's wide eyes staring at him while he did so, and knew they would be at odds about the snake going shopping with them.

'_There you are, precious speaker_,' it hissed back in a jovial tone, '_the others of my nest will be so jealous to know I was the first to share talk with a true speaker, and not just one of those back country folk that hiss and scream_.' It didn't stop there, and launched into a heated story about a woman shaking one of his nest mates to death while she was supposed to be worshiping him.

"I apologize in advance," Harley interrupted as he made his way to the black car, "I am going to have to talk to a man about bringing you with us, and then I will be able to gather your report."

The snake nodded in understanding just as Dean opened the car door and stood just outside of it, "There's no way in hell you're brining that thing into my baby." It wasn't what Harley expected him to say, but he had never understood the way some men referred to their cars as women.

"He has important things to tell me," Harley huffed, "and if it makes you anymore agreeable to the situation I'll share what he has to say." He really didn't want to share information with the Sleazy Buffoon of South Dakota, but he didn't want wait until they got back. It would heighten his chances of getting caught interrogate a snake that had listening in on their private conversation.

"Let me see if I understand," Dean countered while he was still staring at the snake in disgust. "You can talk to snakes?" Harley nodded, "and you want me to let it into my car so you can talk to it?" Harley nodded, "About what my dad and Bobby were talking about earlier?"

Harley allowed the snake to coil around his throat once more before he replied, "you saw that, huh?" It was Dean's turn to nod, and Harley swore. Dean had paid attention when Harley first sent the little corn snake outside, but hadn't said anything then. He needed to learn to be more careful around the hunters, they were trained ton notice things that were out of the ordinary. "Yes, about what your dad and Bobby were talking about," he admitted lamely.

"Alright then," Dean seemed have suddenly gained the ability to compromise and returned to his seat again. Harley hesitated for a moment outside of the door, but lightly grasped the handle and pulled. "Come on, kid. I guarantee this will take longer than both of us think it will, and Bobby want's us to pick up dinner on the way back."

"I already know that," Harley said plainly as he situated himself in the passengers seat. He'd only ever ridden in the front of a car once before, when he and Ron had taken the flying Ford Angela to Hogwarts without permission. It was a little unfamiliar, but he shrugged it off and buckled his seatbelt. "And don't call me kid, my name is Harley," he was already getting tired of correcting the three men. Only Bobby seemed to grasp the idea that Harley didn't like being referred to as a baby goat.

"Whatever, dude. Just see what that snake of yours has to say," Dean brushed him off and put the car in gear. He pulled out of the salvage yard with much practice and didn't seem bothered at all by the roar of the engine.

Harley waited a few minutes before concentrating on the feel of scales against his skin. He still had a problem with his parsletongue to English recognition, but it was a lot easier when he had the privilege of time to concentrate. "Alright Corn Snake, what could you hear of the two men?"

'_Nothing, for I have no ears_,' to that Harley had to roll his eyes again, _'but I was able to understand that even though they do not trust you, they were amused by you. They were first talking about your hoodoo core._' As it turned out there was no word for magic, but most snakes did like to use the word 'hoodoo,' for some reason that alluded Harley's understanding. _'They expect the one next to us to see if you are a danger, precious speaker. Then they talked about a beast, one that was slain by that one next to us. It was one of those angry misty things, and then about taking you to hunt your own angry misty thing. Then that other person joined and they talked about you being a…a_,' and it was finally out of things to say.

"Thank you," Harley hissed back, "Would you like me to find a nice person to leave you with where we're going, or do you want me to leave you in high grass?" because there was no way in hell Harley was going to let him talk his ears off all day and night.

'_You could find me a human caretaker?_' the corn snake asked, and hissed in delight once Harley nodded his head.

"Well?" Dean asked once he was sure the conversation was over. His knuckles were turning white with the force he was gripping the steering wheel. Dean didn't like hearing the snake-talk, not one bit. He wished Sammy was there to explain what the hell was going on, but for now he was going to chalk it up to another psychic thing.

Harry concentrated on Dean's profile until he felt he would be speaking English again, "They talked about me, and they'll ask you about your opinion of my nature when we get back. Then they talked about your last ghost hunt, and about taking me on one if I can be trusted. Then the Corn Snake agreed to being left with someone else, so you'll not have to worry about him being in your car for the drive back."

"Is that all?" Dean asked, and Harley nodded once, "Alright…so I guess we need a plan to get done with the shopping as soon as possible."

"I agree, and if it's alright with you I would like to pick up some cleaning supplies on the way back." Harley tried to keep the uncertainty out of his voice, and hoped that Dean would find it agreeable. He really didn't know what he would do if he only had old rags and hot water to clean with. New sponges would help, as would bleach -maybe in high quantities.

"Dude, you're getting ready to get new clothes and you're still hung up about the mess in the kitchen" Dean said, and so sparked another argument between himself and the much younger Harley Singer.

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**To Those Who Just Read:**

John and Bobby are still a little flat, but they're better than the last chapter…so I guess I shouldn't have plotted their deaths so soon. I can't guarantee, but my plans for the next chapter involve more Dean an Harry. Then I might skip some time, because three years is a lot and I don't really want this to be a hundred chapter story.

Thank you to all of the people who reviewed, and the people that added me to their favorites and alert lists, and the people who added this story to their c2's. I'll think of a special way to thank you in the only way I know how -Writing!

Uh, what else was I supposed to say? …I can't remember.

I like quotes and reviews,

Alzipher

P.S. I am sorry if I have offended anyone's religious sensibilities thus far. Most people will scoff, but I did say 'god damn' at least once...twice.


	5. Chapter 5

**To the Masses:** Like I've said before; I have a lot of free time and nothing left to read. These chapters are coming out pretty fast, and I'm worried that I'm spoiling you guys…seriously.

Warnings:OOC, AU, Slash, mentions of abuse, mentions of sexual abuse, -inhales-, Manipulative Dumbledore (most likely), choppy concepts, awkward sentence structures, Cunning Harry, inspires more questions and answers, underage drinking, underage smoking, cradle robbing, other illegal things, cross-dressing, at this point I'm just adding crap, and more to be added in later chapters.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of it.

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**Chapter Five**

_'Those who dance are thought mad by those who do not hear the music,' anon._

Dean Winchester was conspiring against him, Harley just knew it. If he weren't then there would be no need for the smug looks and the random bouts of laughter. He stood on his toes to peek over another rack of clothing and caught sight of his tall companion, who was continuing his hunt through the clothing in the young women's section -the creep.

Harley didn't care if the younger Winchester had a thing for young women's clothing, so long as he didn't wonder off. He wasn't ignorant of the irony in his thoughts at all, and was plenty aware that it was Dean that was supposed to keep watch while Harley perused the racks for clothes. He found that he much preferred their current version of things, and contemplated the maturity difference as he continued to make his way through several different pairs of pants. His increasing frustration was beginning to become visible in his posture and mannerisms.

Four times he'd caught himself picking at the white gauze around his arm, and he was well aware of his huffing and puffing. The tick that was quickly developing in his right eye went unnoticed, but would twitch rapidly when Dean laughed and wouldn't go away until Harley assured himself that the man was behaving. Another frustrated sigh escaped his lips as he returned another pair of unacceptable pants to the rack in front of him.

He never remembered having such problems finding clothes before, of course he also recalled a time when he only had Dudley's awful castoffs to wear. His time at Hogwarts was spent in uniform, and he never owned much else. The next pair of questionable pants were pulled to the side and viewed with vicious green eyes, "why is this so hard?" he said, to which he followed with a literal growl of impatience.

"Are you having trouble?" a high pitched voice asked from behind him. Harry turned swiftly on his heels and silently berated himself for not being more aware. To further his sour mood his actions seemed only to provide amusement for the girl that he found in his personal space. Her fashionable smooth and shiny blond hair was pulled back and away from her pleasantly round face, and it left her expression open. Harry quickly looked her up and down, noting her girlish style and the employee nametag that dangled from an ugly blue lanyard.

"I'll admit, I do find myself at a loss of how to proceed," Harley tried to sound polite, but his visage was quickly falling apart. "A great loss, and it's making for a hell of a hard time. I'm not usually allowed to pick out my own clothes," he admitted with a bit of shame. His worries were extinguished when he noticed the deliriously happy look on the girls face, and replaced with brand new anxieties.

"A makeover," she said in a whimsical voice. Her doe eyes had turned skyward and her hands were clasped as she thanked the heavens for such a wonderful opportunity. When she got over her blissful moment she began to explain anything and everything about clothes to him. "First of all, you're in the wrong section," she said while shooting the jeans a nasty look.

"Is this not the blokes section?" Harley said in an attempt to politely tell the salesgirl that he was in-fact a 'he' and would have no use for a skirt.

The salesgirl didn't seem swayed at all, but turned to loop her arm through his and pull him towards another isle. "Don't feel insulted, I noticed. It admit I was a bit confused at first, but then that cute guy pointed you out and told me you were probably having some trouble. He also mentioned that you were looking for some new school clothes because all of your other things got lost on the flight over."

Harley wouldn't ever admit it, but he was sort of glad for that. It was certainly better than being left to his own devices and leaving with a bunch of embarrassing clothes. He had enough common sense to know that red corduroy wasn't for him, but if he'd seen one pair of denim jeans he'd seen them all. In theory he knew there were differences, because he'd been subjected to the company of Pavarti Patil and Lavender Brown for four years. Beyond that vague knowledge he was completely lost.

He was a young adult of fourteen who could successfully harness magic while connected to the metaphysical enhancements of the moon, force it to multiply in the earth, and then draw it back out again to use as he saw fit. Not many people could comprehend the theory of what he stumbled upon by accident, and they certainly wouldn't be able to replicate it. He could also use that free magic to enslave and destroy a demon while cleaning himself at the same time, and yet the simple concept of matching this t-shirt to those jeans confounded him.

Harley knew that it wasn't anything to be overly embarrassed about, and the Salesgirl (who had earned a place in Harley's mind as being the first and most important of all salesgirls he'd ever met) spent the next two hours showing him just how much he didn't know. "Really? That shirt with those shoes?" she asked him much later, as she looked in disdain at the shirt he held in his hand.

Harley looked down at his shoes and was about to reply, when Dean's voice caught his attention for what seemed like the million time that day. He wondered what the idiot was up to that time and stood on this toes to see that Winchester was just chatting up the girl behind the register. There were a couple of scathing insults on the tip of his tongue, but he held them back only because it wouldn't be polite to shout them across the store. Granted it was a small second-hand store, but it would still be rude to subject the other customers to his temper.

"Don't worry," the Salesgirl said rather suddenly, "he's not about to leave. Janet's just keeping him busy while we finish up. Now," Harley glanced back at the girl who was surveying his dingy shoes, "are you one of those people who have a special attachment to their shoes?"

Harley didn't have to glance down again and told her plainly, "Absolutely not, my aunt picked these out," which he seemed to be saying a lot to this girl. It had been his out for everything; his aunt picked out his clothes, his aunt never took him shopping, his aunt had frowned upon that so he just didn't know. The Salesgirl took it all with a smile, but it became increasingly more dimmed around the edges. She was staring to feel sorry for him, he realized with a jolt of annoyance. "I'm willing to try whatever you suggest," and that seemed to make her smile brighten all over again.

"I was thinking Chucks," she said with fondness, but was only met with Harley's confused stare (also a common thing between the two), "you know All-Stars? Converse? Like mine?" Harley's gaze traveled down to see her black and white shoes. He wasn't at all bothered by the fact that a girl was wearing them, because in the last two hours he'd had a crash course of fashion. He learned many things along the way, such as America's fondness for androgynous clothing. In fact he was carrying a few pairs of pants that both girls and boys would wear, a young woman's hoodie (so the Salesgirl lied a little), a hand full of wicked looking t-shirts, and there was more already at the counter.

"Those look nice," he said honestly, "I think I've seen those before. They look like they'd go with just about anything," and her smile told him that it was a very correct assumption. "Are we almost done?" he then asked. It was a bit rude, Harley had to admit, but the Salesgirl had quickly gotten used to it. He'd actually started asking about every five minutes since they started their grand makeover, and she didn't seem to have heard him at all.

"We actually have a pair or two here, but we're a second-hand store. It would be kind of gross to wear shoes someone else sweat in first," Harley refrained from telling her that the shoes he'd had on actually used to be his cousins, "you'll have to get your cute friend to take you to a nearby shoe store. There's actually one about a block over, and then you should probably get some accessories, and some hats, and -Oh, you absolutely have to go to this store down the way," and she continued on and on just like she had done for the past two hours.

Dean was still at the front counter when the Salesgirl pronounced them done, a good twenty minutes later. Harley had a whole pile of clothes, more than he thought he would and was nervous when they finally had it all stacked on the counter. He glanced at Dean as the girls set to scanning and folding each article, but the young man hadn't said anything about it.

"Oh, aren't you cute?" the other, less life altering salesgirl cooed. Janet was her name, as he remembered it. Harley cleared his mind in a strong attempt to keep from glaring her into submission. "Julia would have absolutely adored you. You're just so tiny," she ventured on in a bizarre mix between flirting and baby-talk.

Harley didn't notice her advances, but he did catch the indignant snort from the Salesgirl. "Does Julia also work here?" Harley politely inquired, though inside he was pressed to agree with his Salesgirl and was quickly annoyed by the more brainless one.

"Not anymore," his Salesgirl corrected, "she passed away about a month ago." Her tone suggested that she didn't much care. It was incredibly out of character for the upbeat girl he'd come to know in the short time they spent altering his perception of clothing.

"She was so beautiful," Dean's salesgirl mourned dramatically, "and nice. Poor Julia, she just passed away so suddenly. Nobody knew what killed her, but I think some careless guy broke her heart." The redhead wiped a nonexistent tear form the corner of her heavily made-up eye. "Then just a week later her sister took a fall down the stairs and is in a coma. I can't imagine how their mother must be feeling."

"Did you know the family personally?" Dean asked in a sympathetic tone, which Harley just had to roll his eyes at. Winchester was just so full of shit, as was the salesgirl he was chatting up. Harley spared a glance at his Salesgirl to see that she felt much the same, and had continued to take the little security tags off with much more force than necessary.

"Yeah," the redheaded salesgirl said with sadness that seemed just as unreal as Dean's sympathy. "Julia and I were practically sisters, and their mom was always so nice to me. She had the best dieting tips, and now I just can't believe all that bad that's happening in that house."

"What's wrong with the house?" Harley interjected. He would much rather hear about that then the poor dears that Janet was going on about.

"Oh well, I called Mrs. Vandercauf a couple of days ago," Harley suddenly found could care less, as the unintelligent girl seemed to think it was important to speak of it as if she were performing for a soap opera. "To see how Julia's sister was doing, you know? Because they were like family, and I wanted to know if I could help Mrs. Vandercauf out, you know? She told me all of these weird things, like how their food keeps going bad overnight and the lights stopped working right. That and she swears that she saw Julia just the other night, like she had never died. It's weird, huh?"

"Weird," Dean agreed with a passive gesture. Harley didn't know the other man more than a day, so he couldn't say with confidence that Dean was actually thinking. He did seem less interested in the redheaded salesgirl rather suddenly. The way his eyebrows bunched together and his brownish-green eyes were slightly glazed over were indicators of deep thought that Harley usually saw in Hermione.

"Alright," Harley's new favorite Salesgirl interrupted. Dean was pulled out of his thoughts as she rattled off the total, which Harley didn't much understand. He would have to make an effort to learn the American currency soon, on the way to the shoe store if possible. He did hate to ask Dean to teach him anything -because they seemed to be getting along so well, Harley thought with much sarcasm. "Do you need help carrying them out?" she asked.

Harley looked to Dean out of the corner of his eyes for permission, and received a nod in reply. The three of them grabbed the large bags from the counters and the Salesgirl told Janet that she would be back in a moment. Dean hadn't parked his Impala too far form the entrance, because he could and wanted to see his precious baby though the shop's large windows.

"She wasn't, you know," the Salesgirl said abruptly, just as Dean unlocked the car door.

"Wasn't what?" Harley asked patiently. From the looks of the fashionista, she was struggling internally with what she was telling him. Ron often had similar problems, because of the morals he had grown up with and the vast difference in Harley's own view of the world. The young pureblood would often try talking to him first, and then worried about the consequences after he started.

"She wasn't nice, or beautiful," she continued, and Dean was nice enough to let Harley direct the questions, which he knew was extremely out of character for the loud yankee. "I know it's so horrible to speak ill of the dead, but Janet had it all wrong. Julia had an eating disorder, and it was bad. People could see her bones through he clothes, her hair would fallout, and she was always so tired," she paused and bit into her lip-glossed bottom lip, "she only liked talking to the skinny customers, and would be rude to everyone else."

"Why are you telling me this?" Harley asked while trying not to take things too personally. He knew that the next thing she was going to say was relevant to his own weight, but there was noting he could do about it without stopping her story. It wasn't his fault either, as immature as it sounded.

"Because you're aunt, the way you talked about her…It just reminded me of Julia's mother. Mrs. Vandercauf used to come into the stores when Julia worked, and I think it was to make sure she didn't have anything to eat. It was just so horrible to think about; wasting away and starving, having someone hover over you like that, making sure you were the perfect specimen -just like she wanted. Julia became some twisted, sorority worshiping, monster in pink." The Salesgirl wiped her eyes with the back of her hand before she continued, "you got away from your aunt, right? You're too funny and nice to die like Julia did. I couldn't stand it if that happened to someone else."

Harley felt sad for her, genuinely and in the deepest part of his heart. The kindness of a perfect stranger was nearly too touching to bare. Trust Dean Winchester to bring them both back to earth, "Yeah, he got away," he huffed, for the first time that day. Huffing was his thing, Harley thought with a bit of amusement. "Singer's safe, now the chick-flick moment is over," he paused so that the rumblings of his own stomach could be heard loud and clear, "and I'm hungry."

"You ate not even three hours ago," Harley was in a mixture of awe and nostalgia. He didn't have a hard time believing that there was a human who could eat a mountain of food and still be hungry a couple of hours later. What he did find to be incredible, was that this human was not Ronald Weasley.

"Yeah, yeah," Dean waved him off and climbed into his car, "just say goodbye to your girlfriend and get your ass into the car. I think I saw a diner a couple of minutes away." He was intentionally being rude, just to make up for the intense emotions that had transpired between Bobby's new boy-daughter and a stranger he met only two and a half hours before.

"Honestly," Harley muttered in annoyance, and then turned back to the Salesgirl, "thank you, I probably would have walked out of there with rubbish without any help. Who knows what your friend would have put me in, if I had asked her," he tried to joke.

His Salesgirl crossed her arms and stuck her nose in the air in a failed attempt to seem snooty, "she's not my friend. She's my sister, and a total idiot. She would have you in a pink bubble skirt and a sequence tank. I swear, sometimes I think she didn't get enough oxygen in the womb," she was smiling again a moment later, "my name's Jaxie, by the way. Jaxie Hewitt."

"Harley Singer," he replied, but couldn't help the roll his eyes made when Dean shouted his name from inside of the car. He felt like he would be seeing her again, and he liked the pure kindness that she'd shown him. It wasn't because he was the Boy-Who-Lived, or a Tri-Wizard Champion; she was nice just because she had that option. Those types of people were too far and in between for his liking, and he said his good-byes with a little sadness.

"Well, now that that's over," Dean sighed in faux-misery. "We have a hunt," were his next words, which meant absolutely nothing to Harley, and were said with intense excitement.

"Oh really?" Harley mocked, "what are your facts?" and his seemingly uninterested tone coupled with an unspoken challenge would get Dean Winchester to explain himself. The man wouldn't be able to help himself, he just had to talk.

"The faulty lights, food spoiling overnight, plus the sister taking a taupe down the stairs. I bet my favorite Zeppelin shirt that this Julia girl is holding a major grudge against the mom." Dean continued while looking at him out of the side of his eyes, "I mean, what kind of woman starves a kid?"

He's on his own fishing expedition, Harley noticed. His choices were limited; he could deny that his aunt starved him and blame himself for his own malnourishment, or he could confirm what John and Bobby already suspected. He remembered what caring people would do if they thought someone was suffering alone, and visibly shuddered. There would be no end to the annoying side-glances and repetitive attempts to have a heart-to-heart. "A woman who cares way too much about what other people think, and would do anything to protect her own twisted version of what they think is 'normal," he didn't need to make any effort to sound bitter and hurt.

Dean allowed himself a small pang of sadness for a child who suffered at the hands of someone else, but he wasn't the kind of person who pitied others. That would far too girly for him. "Right, so that chick said something about a shoe store. I also asked the redhead, and she said there was farmers market around here somewhere. Bobby told me to let you buy some of those colorful rocks, because they seemed to help you with…whatever the hell it was with that demon. I don't know, they didn't explain it to me. But I'm hungry, and you didn't eat much at breakfast, so we're gonna stop at the diner first."

Harley's eyes made another round trip at Dean's crass way of speaking, but decided to offer knowledge instead of letting Dean linger in ignorance. "I used some of Bobby's healings stones to trap the demon, broke them, and then burned them into nothing with a cursed fire. It effectively killed the stupid, alligator violating, wanker, " he said bluntly.

Dean's hands turned sharply in one direction while he head turned as fast as it could to look at Harley with wide eyes. The Impala swerved sharply into the next lane, but Dean caught his mistake and quickly turned the wheel until they sharply swerved back onto the right side of the rode. Harley was cautiously silent as Dean continued to steer to the right until they had safely reached the side of the road and put the car in park. "Bullshit," he practically shrieked.

"I'm sorry," he shouted back in a moment of uncertainty. He hadn't considered the fact that Dean might hate magic as much as the Dursley's, and that he wasn't there when his ghost-parents explained certain things to John and Bobby. He could get hit, or maybe Dean would just pull out his gun and just shoot him in the head. "I'm sorry," he repeated in a much more muted tone.

"What the hell for? You _killed_ a demon? I mean seriously, it's never going to exist again? With _rocks_?! My dad or Bobby didn't tell me! I can't believe they wouldn't tell me I was taking some gung-ho, demon smashing, hoodoo wielding psychic to buy his school clothes! Why are you even going to school?" He calmed his tone down almost immediately, and Harley couldn't help but watch in some fascination as Dean's face broke out into a grin. He wasn't being hit, or kicked, or screamed at -Dean just seemed to like screaming in general. "Oh, we're so going to kick that ghosts ass!"

Harley flinched at the thought of using the cleansing ritual on Nearly-Headless Nick, before he realized what Dean was getting at. He meant that the skinny ghost of Julia Vandercauf was probably haunting her family; making the food go bad, messing with the electricity, and had probably pushed her sister down the stairs. "Oh, you've decided that we're going after Julia's ghost then? How do you propose we go about that?"

Dean pulled the Impala back onto the road before he replied, "You know. Find a vengeful spirit, find out where it's buried, and then salt and burn the bones. If they're aren't any bones we look for some other things the person left behind, like hair or something. Really dude, what's up with the quiz? I may not be all demon-killing like you, but I still know what I'm doing."

Oh really, Harley thought with much sarcasm. He apparently didn't know well enough to realize it was Harley that had no clue what was going on, but the smaller boy just shrugged it off. "So the first step is to find out if there really is a mad spirit. I suppose we should figure out all we can about Julia and where she used to live," it was really just an educated guess. For all he knew they had to consult the stars and read some onji board to figure out where the girl used to call home. Though he doubted non-magical people put much stock in those sort of things when witches and wizards were reluctant to believe they worked.

They had already reached the diner. The building looked like an old drive-in but redone in a metallic coating, and reflected the late morning light in the most annoying of ways. Harley looked out the window and noticed the funny little paintings that seemed to be apart of the theme and smiled. Sure the little Hollywood cartoons sort of freaked him out, but he was getting to eat out and didn't have to worry about the Dursley's or reporters. He would actually get to enjoy a relatively normal dinning experience, ghosts and evils spirits aside.

"What do you look so happy about, pipsqueak?" confusion coated Dean's voice as he watched the young man stare at the building as if it were his first time eating out. Hell, it might as well have been if he was right, and Harley's aunt really did starve him. "You've been to a restaurant before, right?"

"Of course I have," Harley snapped half-heartedly, and climbed out of the car with much enthusiasm. "Just not one I thought I might enjoy," he added and practically skipped to the front door, but stopped in front of it and waited for Dean.

The hunter took his time going through the bags until he found the one he was looking for and quickly followed. He took the initiative and held the door open, but didn't bother to hold in his laughter as Harley bounced through the second one and into the waiting area of the diner. They were immediately met with an overly hyper waitress who giggled at Harley and blushed when she caught sight of Dean.

They both waited until they were seated and ordered their drinks before Dean turned their attention back to work. "I was thinking you could get us into the house and keep the parents busy while I have a look around. See what I can find anything or any signs of a ghost being there." It actually sounded like a decent plan, except for one thing.

"How am I supposed to keep the parents busy?" Harley asked, "I'm sure they're more likely to believe that you had some romantic encounter with her, and are just passing through to pay your respects." To his ears it sounded like the best course of action for two young men. At least that's how Harley saw them, and didn't anticipate that Dean could be a colossal ass-hat.

"Or," Dean started off slowly, and set the small bag on the table. He pushed it towards Harley and made sure the young man knew it was for him before he continued, "an old school friend show's up to pay her respects, brining her much older and ruggedly handsome guy friend for support."

Harley's eyes narrowed at the words and he nearly ripped the bag in his attempt to see what was in it. He never thought in a million years he would find an entire outfit meant for a woman around his height and weight. He frowned and looked back up at Dean while giving him his best glare. It was the look that sent a fifth year Gryffindor crying, that frightened stupid first years who tried to ask him for an autograph, and was rumored to be able to bring down the entire Great Hall of Hogwarts (the last wasn't true, and it was Seamus who had started that rumor). Dean Winchester wasn't frightened by the look at all, but he did seem a little guilty.

"Dude, if looks could kill," Dean said passively, and then caught sight of the waitress and their drinks. He automatically sat back and gave his most charming grin. The moment was officially over, but Harley would get his revenge later.

Harley pulled the bag off of the table and contemplated leaving it underneath his seat when they left, but Dean's plan really was the best they could come up with. Harley still preferred being seen as a guy, but if he showed up as an old friend of Julia's -one that her mother would approve of, without a doubt, then they were more likely to get what they want.

"Here you go," the bubbly waitress said, "one coffee and water and an orange juice." She set them down in front of Dean and Harley respectively, but startled the later by setting another cup of coffee next to his juice. "It's on the house, cutie," she smiled widely. The waitress walked away before Harley could unleash a tongue lashing at the woman, but settled for glaring at Dean as the older man laughed.

"Stop getting so offended," he advised while doctoring his own cup of joe. "It's the way of the land. Women will now be calling you cute, darling, sweetie wherever you go. But hey, at least you got a free cup of coffee out of it."

Harley had to agree there was an upside to all of the mothering and flirting, but that didn't stop him from making a disgusted face at the stuff in his cup. "It looks like motor oil," he complained, and then looked at Dean's cup. The hunters coffee was a lighter brown from the sugar and cream.

"And tea looks like grass water," Dean shot back, pulling the younger man's cup away so that he could add the proper amounts sweetener. When he returned the cup a moment later it was a light brown color and smelt a little better. "Try it, there's a reason this whole country runs on the stuff."

Harley took a cautious sip, then another, and then practically inhaled the rest of it. "It's not bad," he amended, and ignored the laughter from Dean that followed. "Alright," he agreed, "You did buy me a new wardrobe, you're treating me to lunch, and we still have more places to go to. That, and you let me bring the corn snake into your car."

"Where did that thing go to anyways?" Dean worried that maybe it had burrowed into the back of his car and was laying eggs in his seats or something. He vowed he would clean the whole thing out, just to make sure there wouldn't be any hatchlings keeping him company while he traveled across the country.

"He slithered out before we went into the clothing store. There was a kid that was leaving the pet store that had wanted a lizard, but from what we heard his mother wouldn't let him. So the corn snake followed him home." Harley snickered a little, "I don't think his mum will be very happy when she finds out." He'd grown up surrounded by house spiders and could talk to snakes, so he really didn't understand what was so frightening about them. He did know what fear was and that it wasn't always logical, but that didn't mean he was any less amused when he thought of the child's snappish mother screaming when she comes across a red and orange corn snake.

Dean shook his head in the same sort of mean amusement that Harley was giggling about, but changed the subject to one more pertinent. "So we'll go to the shoe store, that rock place, and then look up Mrs. Vandercauf and see if there dead daughter is haunting the place."

Harley would have rolled his eyes again, but they were starting to hurt whenever he did. "They're called healing stones, Winchester, and I'm not so sure the cleansing ritual I used will work on a ghost."

"Why the hell not?" Dean demanded to know, and this time Harley did unleash the insults. He mixed in a little bit of an explanation, enough to satisfy the hunter without telling him about magic, but the general message was that Dean Winchester was an idiot.

**~The Bonus~**

Dumbledore had temporarily lost the twinkle in his grandfatherly eyes, and it had been replaced by a smoldering frustration. He sat behind his desk and sipped his cold tea while thinking as hard as he possibly could on the matter at hand. As far as he could tell there were no solutions, only question after question.

He'd been informed, a week after Harry Potters disappearance that there were still no leads and no information. Naturally, when all of his adult sources had been extinguished after a day he had turned to Harry's friends. The social network the boy had created had far surpassed anyone's expectations, especially his own. He had thought that with the boy's upbringing that he would have limited himself to two people; Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger. Dumbledore was well aware that Harry had limited interactions with other students, and since Weasley and Granger were loyal to a fault, he decided to ask someone younger and more impressionable.

The Headmaster had questioned one second year Gryffindor about Harry Potter's behavior before the third task. He thought that if he was lucky then the little girl would chatter on while leaving one or two little clues.

It had started with the second year he questioned. She had seemed happy enough to tell him about her classes and some of her friends. He had asked the second year girl why she had reacted the way she did when Harry disappeared in an attempt to better understand. The little girl's head had snapped up, her light brown curls had bounced around the light blue ribbon like magic. Her childlike eyes had looked at him in shock and then in mistrust, and she immediately asked to be excused in her best drawl.

Minerva was instructed to talk to the litter girl next, but got nothing out of her either. Then the mistrust spread to her little friends; a couple of other second year Gryffindors and a first year from Ravenclaw. The children wouldn't answer to him anymore, and wouldn't answer any questions posed by their Heads of House. He didn't know what they had begun telling each other to merit such a response, but he wanted to know. Even if it meant using illegal Legilimency on the students. If only they _all_ hadn't began to avoid him like the plague. The entirety of the student body even repressed the urge to look at him during meal times, and they were careful never to mention Potter in any conversation that could be heard.

It seemed the student body had closed up tighter than a Goblins vault. None of the were talking, at all. Usually there were one or two out of ten students that wouldn't agree with such an overreaction and step forward, but as soon as one of the children looked like they wanted to spill they would be pulled aside by someone else. It was House-Unity of the worst kind.

Even the Slytherin students had nothing to tell him or Severus. As they had expected, Draco Malfoy had started flinging around wild accusations. When he'd been pulled aside by his own Head of House and asked what he knew about Potter he sneered. Severus swore up and down that the boy actually sneered at him, and claimed that he didn't know or want anything to do with what Potter was actually on about.

What was possibly the worst part of the whole ordeal was that there was no way to make them talk. Each house suddenly grew an expert on school rules, and if they wanted the student to talk the child would simply point out a rule and ask to leave. The rudest ones warranted detentions and their Heads of Houses began writing letters to all of their parents full of concern and disappointment.

It was downright ridiculous, not to mention overly suspicious. Nothing like that had ever happened before, and especially not to Mister Potter. Student's were normally so open in their opinions of the boy, especially when he'd done something out of the norm. They had feared him in second year when he was discovered to be a Parselmouth, they pitied him when Sirius Black was out for his blood, and they hated him for becoming the second Tri-Wizard Champion of Hogwarts.

When he and Cedric Diggory went missing at the end of the third task there had been an overwhelming sense of panic that claimed the students of Hogwarts. Then, one by one they ceased their screaming and shouting and became sad. Just sad, like they had just said good-bye to a good friend. He hadn't felt any of those emotions the way his students had, and it had made him curious.

School had ended one week later, and Dumbledore sat in the office of an empty castle contemplating all that had happened. Fawkes sang a mellow song from his perch, but hadn't seemed overly distressed in all that had transpired. Even Hogwarts was content, if not a little sad about the sudden loss of a student. The somewhat sentient castle had always welcomed Harry home and surrounded him with warmth and magic during his stay.

The general reaction of everyone and everything around Harry's disappearance bothered him. He cursed the students and their ignorance, didn't they know that they needed their savior?! Didn't the ignorant children realize that evil was upon them again and Harry Potter was the only one that could save them?

He would think not, but on the other hand he didn't really know what they were thinking. Dumbledore only knew that they refused to include him in their thoughts.

Well if he couldn't get the human children of Hogwarts to talk to him then he would have to find other sources. He would have to go to the ghosts and ask them all of his quirky questions. With a new course of action Dumbledore set down his lemon tea and rose for his chair. He needed to find Nearly-Headless Nick, and maybe ask him into his office for tea.

* * *

**To Those Who Just Read:**

I know the bonus bit is cliché, and vague, and sort of stupid sounding. I do have a reason for it all though, and it's sort of hard to explain. I'll tell you all around the time the goblins show up, so in a chapter or two. Probably two.

Uh, thank you for your patience.

Also a special shout out to my reviewers. I like most of you. I especially have found a fondness for people who leave me long reviews, with an option to reply with something equally long and rant-like.

I'm trying, but I really can't think of anything I have to say about the first part of this chapter. They'll go ghost hunting in chapter six, that's about it…and it's pretty obvious. The second part of the chapter is where I have to circle back and go 'should I really have written that? I could have just kept it a secret and explained what I was going to in chapter seven, anyways.' Well, I guess it's too late now. It's still your guy's bonus for the awesome reviews and tons of adds.

Next time I'll add a little bit of what Ronald Weasley is thinking, and give a little insight to what happened to the students when Harry and Cedric were in the graveyard. Uh, I'm rambling now.

I like reviews (long ones) and quotes,

Alzipher


	6. Chapter 6

**To the Masses:** I really botched up the bonus. I hadn't noticed while I was writing it, and then I rushed to post it with the rest of the chapter. I'll do better next time, and after a bit of extra effort the typos shouldn't be so bad.

Warnings:

Dislaimer: I don't own Supernatural or Harry Potter. I do own Julia Vandercauf, but I'm willing to auction her and her family off -should anyone wish to buy them.

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**Chapter Six**

_'We will all die and the stars will go out, one after another,' unknown_

Harley sat in the passenger seat of the Impala, trying to word his next few sentences as carefully as he could. There were just things Dean wouldn't understand if Harley just blurted it all out. He twisted in the seat and the black mini-skirt rode up a little too much for his comfort. He avoided Dean's curious gaze and the questions that he had about the Vandercauf's in favor of smoothing the black material back down, over the top of the bright green stockings.

"Alright, I get it. You hate those clothes, but it's not a good enough reason not to talk to me," Dean snapped. They had pulled away from the house almost ten minutes ago, and stopped at a gas station. Harley hadn't said anything in all of that time, not even to insult his intelligence. The adopted Singer just stared at his hands and fidgeted with his clothing every other minute.

Dean had to admit though, he didn't do too bad. The skit and stockings went really well with a pair of dark green All-Stars that Harley had picked out. There had nearly been hell to pay when Harley pulled the silk tank top, and had refused to wear something so 'revealing and lingerie-looking,' but once he put a soft green t-shirt on underneath he didn't seem as mad.

The one thing that Harley hadn't commented on at all, to Dean's surprise, was the leather jacket. It was made out of worn out faux-leather and a third generation knock-off, with little metal studs along the collar. The kid's face just lit up when he pulled it out of the bag, enough to vanish the murderous edge in his glare at any rate. In the end Dean didn't seem at all bothered that he had just dressed an underage boy in revealing clothes, and then secretly taken a few pictures with his camera-phone.

As soon as they reached their destination Harley slipped into a personality that he'd pieced together over brunch, to test out his acting skills. Dean would never admit it, but he was freaked out to the extreme as soon as Harley started playing his part. He had turned into a young lady, poised and aristocratic in nature, but rebellious enough to explain the rough looking guy-friend and Impala.

The parents of Julia latched onto him immediately. Mr. Vandercauf hugged Harley around the shoulders and opened himself up to the sympathy almost immediately. The Missus was more prone to fawn over Harley and offer compliments on his figure and clothing, but remained extremely tight-lipped over both of her children. Harley spent an hour extracting bits and pieces of information while offering very little in return, he skillfully turned the conversation in the direction he wanted it to go, and made it possible for Dean to blend in with the background. His lies were so carefully constructed around the truth that Dean wasn't sure they were even untrue to begin with.

The actual hunter of them both stuck around for nearly twenty minutes, before asking where the bathroom was. Mrs. Vandercauf gave him short directions before turning back to his manipulative little counterpart. He would have to remember to thank the kid later, because in all of the years he'd been hunting he had never seen grieving strangers so enthralled.

Dean did his digging for nearly a half hour without being noticed. He'd never had more than a few minutes before, and to have a half hour seemed nearly unreal. When he was done he went back downstairs, but still wasn't noticed. The inattention conflicted with his basic nature to be apart of the crowd, but he squashed the instinct and watched Harley at work.

When they were done it was as if the kid couldn't get out of there fast enough. He nearly tripped over every crack in the sidewalk on his way to the car, jerked the door open, and nearly fell into his seat. Dean waited patiently for him to cool his jets as they drove off, but he'd grown tired of the silence quickly.

Which brought them to their current predicament; Dean wanted information and Harley wasn't ready to talk about it. Winchester didn't know what got into the kid all of the sudden, but whatever it was could be important to their hunt. When Harley didn't answer him, he sighed. His tank was full anyways, and he retreated into the station to pay and get them a couple of snacks. It had been nearly four hours since they'd last eaten.

The first hour after lunch had been spent at the shoe store. Harley had shocked Dean when he returned quickly with a pair of cheap tennis shoes, and then Dean shocked his vertically challenged charge by insisted he leave and return only after he'd found at least two pair of kick-ass shoes. Harley had given him a weird look, but they left the store with two pairs of Converse and a trusty pair of work boots.

Then they stopped off by the farmers market, just like Bobby insisted. The kid found a store that sold his fancy rocks pretty quick, and explained that he could feel them somehow. Dean didn't know, he wasn't really paying attention. He _did_ noticed that he spent nearly an hour and a half in the store while Harley picked through all sorts of colorful stones. Then realized that Harley wasn't so much picking through the stones as he was adding up the prices and becoming increasingly worried. Dean had solved that problem by grabbing handfuls of each kind, that fancy leather-bound journal the kid had stared at, and a soda for himself.

When they were done with all of the shopping Dean proved that he knew something of research when he found them a phone book. He was secretly relieved to kind the Vandercauf name, because he would have been lost if they weren't listed. Harley didn't seem to notice, and reluctantly picked up the payphone to dial the number. He gave the best 'I didn't know she had passed away/may I stop by to offer condolences in person?' speech Dean had ever heard.

The Vandercauf's turned out to own a house in the ritzy part of town. Harley changed in the car while Dean drove, cursing like a sailor while he tried to figure out how stockings worked and attempting to fix his hair. In the end it was Dean that came to the rescue, and had quickly ran his right hand through Harley's brittle hair to make it look intentionally messy. That just sparked another argument, but Harley's hair did look better.

After that had been the hour at the Vandercauf's house, and he was hungry again. He grabbed a bag of chili flavored Frito's for himself and some chocolate for Harley. All kids liked chocolate, as Dean recalled. His little brother used to go crazy for the stuff, so maybe it would help cheer up Bobby's boy-daughter before they returned to the salvage yard. He'd hate for his dad and Bobby to think he was mean to the kid, because that would probably lead to a long lecture of responsibility and whatnot. He paid for the junk food and two more soda's before he returned to the care.

Harley was still sitting in the passenger seat, but he'd dug around the backseat and found his little healing stones. He was rolling a brown stone between his hands and muttering to himself. Dean waited a moment to let the kid gather his thoughts, but mostly in an attempt to read the kid's lips. When he realized he lacked the talent he opened the door and immediately tossed the soda and chocolate bar in his lap.

"I don't know how to explain it," were Harley's chosen words of apology. He didn't look up, but he did set the stone aside. Dean got a better look and thought it resembled snakeskin, and then noticed that Harley had taken the offered soda and chocolate in his hands. He still wouldn't look up, but it was a start.

"Don't be such a girl," He demanded, "you were all find and dandy at the house, playing the grieving sorority girl. Now you're all freaked out. Well I have to tell you; I'm freaked out. Where the hell did you learn how to act like a girl? While we're at it, where the hell did you learn to lie so…so," he struggled with the image of Harley, remembering how he looked and talked. "Flawlessly," seemed to be the right word.

Harley flinched at the accusations, but answering Dean's questions provided a nice distraction. "I used to go to a boarding school, and was surrounded by the same people for four years. It wasn't hard to pick and choose who I wanted to act like…and I guess I'm a better actor than I thought I was." He hesitated for a moment. He didn't want to mention certain things about himself, but he felt Dean had a right to know about the rest. "I did use a little…hoodoo," he confessed.

Dean's eyes narrowed a bit, but he was careful not to let Harley see his reaction. Not like the kid had looked up at all during their whole conversation anyways. He started the Impala and reached for the volume knob with clear intentions to blast some Jimi Hendrix while he thought, but stopped himself. "Did you do any of your psychic shit on me?" was the question he really wanted to know. He immediately regretted wording his question the way he did when he saw Harley's shoulders slump forward.

"No," he said quietly, "I've never used my abilities to mentally alter a persons perception before. I haven't done anything to you either. I just," he paused a second to look at some of the passing buildings. Dean could see the kid's reflection in the passenger window, and the look on his face. Harley was struggling with every revelation, because he didn't really want to let go of his secrets. "I just suggested that they didn't need to pay attention to you, so that you could go off and look for clues."

"Well, it did help," Dean said in the end. He knew that Harley was a human, his dad and Bobby wouldn't have let the kid stay if he wasn't. He also knew that the little firecracker wasn't really a threat, again because the old men in his life wouldn't have tolerated it. The psychic, magic, mind ability stuff still freaked him out though. He spent too much of his life hunting the supernatural to repress those instincts, but that Jedi mind trick he did helped a ton. "I managed to nab this," he added a moment later in a tone full of pride and self-confidence.

Harley finally looked at Dean, as the older man pulled a thin volume from an interior pocket of his jacket. It was a pastel pink color with little white flowers around the border, and the word 'Journal,' was written in an elegant, rose colored, print. Harley immediately reached out and took it, and Dean didn't mind at all because it meant that the short-stack would be doing all of the reading. With renewed happiness, Dean reached out and turned up the volume on the radio. Ironically enough, it was Voodoo Child that echoed through Dean's Impala first.

It was a little half past one, and after two hours of driving around while looking for a good place to eat that Harley was ready to explain what he knew to his chauffeur. They were sitting in a secluded corner of a Ma and Pa joint that claimed to have the best pizza in town. Dean had already ordered their soda's and a 'large pie with extra meat.' Harley wasn't sure what he meant, but he waitress just smiled and jotted down the order before walking away.

Harley placed the journal on the table and took a long drink of his Coca-Cola before he began to speak. "I'm sorry I made you upset earlier, but I was trying to find words to go along with the impressions that I got from Julia's parents."

"Like, mental impressions and stuff?" Dean asked and Harley shrugged. "Dude, that stuff you do is making this hunt way easy," he had to add, and then he relinquished his speaking rights before Harley laid it into him again. He didn't really appreciate a fourteen year old telling him he was possibly the least intelligent person he'd ever had the unfortunate opportunity to meet, but he had to admit the kid was pretty creative. He didn't mind the verbal beating as long as Harley answered his question, and the pipsqueak did a good job explaining things to him in between jabs. He had already made a point of asking stupid questions, just to get a rise out of him.

"Yes," Harley said in a flat, if not mildly sarcastic tone, "everything I do to contribute to this case is done with my psychic abilities. I'll even conjure you up a turkey dinner, after we salt and burn the bones." Dean gave him a confused look which meant he either didn't know what the word 'conjure' meant, or he was contemplating the taste. Harley really did roll his eyes at the man across the booth before he got down to business. "It was just a feeling I got, from the mum. I can't really explain it, but if I had to put it into words I would say she was terrified and disgusted."

"About what?" Dean knew a gut feeling when he heard one, but apparently Harley was having a problem figured his own feelings out. When Sammy was younger and got a feeling about something he would cry before he figured out a way to explain it, but Harley didn't seem the time to want a good shoulder to cry on and Dean didn't want his shirt to get all wet. The best he could do was offer prompting questions, sit back, and listen. Possibly even get the kid a refill, because Harley sucked down caffeine like it was air.

"I don't know. I've only ever read about Legilimency, the practice of seeing into someone's mind, and even if I did find a way into her mind it would be too dangerous. I'm unpracticed and there's a chance I could scramble her mind, make her forget things, or destroy it completely," he explained with unease as he trailed the grain on the wooden tabletop with a thin finger.

"Well you didn't, so I guess that's good," Dean shrugged him off. He had been more freaked about the possibility that Harley could read his mind, because he liked his thoughts to be completely private. That, and he didn't know what the kid would see in there. He didn't want to take Harley back to Singer's Salvage in hysterics because he'd seen Dean do all sorts of things to women in his head. There was also a morally higher reason that Dean didn't feel like dealing with, like his own doubts about humanity for instance.

"Yeah," Harley agreed with more confidence, "I did get some idea out of Julia's personal notes. She talks about a lot of high school drama for the first year or so, but when she turns fifteen her passages start becoming more and more like the girl that Jaxie told us about. It could just be puberty, but I think that's were her problems all started. She makes vague but alarming notes about her father, and she speaks about her mum like she's nothing more than a fly on the wall."

"Does it mention anything about her sister, or any homicidal urges?" Dean asked. It gave Harley an insight to the way Dean's mind worked, and the questions were ones that he hadn't thought of himself.

"There's very little about her sister, Chloe. There was an odd passage from a few months ago, mentioning her sister's fifteenth birthday. Julia mentioned something about a family tradition that she's not fond of, so we know that the age is relevant. Her thoughts in general are geared around her appearance and the appearance of others, and there weren't any mentions of death, dying, killing, or anything of the sort." Harley paused and tapped the journal with a restless hand. "Her entry rate varies, but they're generally close together. Until a month before her death, where she slowed down dramatically. It could mean her illness kept her from writing, or she was afraid someone was watching her and would find it."

Dean's eyebrows drew together and his eyes became glazed over, just as they had when he was in deep thought earlier. "It could be witchcraft. You know, a family of witches decide to bring their children in when they're fifteen, and the kids resent it or something. Julia seems all hung up on what she looked like, so maybe she was worried about what other people would think if her practicing hoodoo," he reasoned, and then tossed a 'no offense,' just to be polite.

The whole notion was insulting, but Harley contained his anger and silently accepted Dean's half-assed apology. "I don't know. Fifteen isn't a very important number in Earth magic, but it could be a parental decision. If it was a Deal-Maker than they probably wouldn't have shared the knowledge at all. I've never come across one myself, but from some of the old stories I gathered that those who make deals with demons for their magic are extremely selfish with the knowledge. They would not be likely to share it with anyone, not even family, if it meant giving up some of their power." Harley could see the gears turning in Deans head to process what he'd just explained, about there being two types of magic.

The 'pie with extra meat' arrived just as Dean opened his mouth to speak. He gave Harley a look that clearly said they would talk later, and that Harley would give him a better explanation. If he was lucky then the younger Winchester would forget, at least until he contacted the goblins for those books he wanted.

The waitress was kind enough to give him a refill and a smile, but the woman seemed much less flirty than the other women he'd met. It was only when he looked down that he realized he'd forgotten to change back into his pants. Dean smirked in his direction when he figured out the shocked look on Harley's face, before serving them both fresh slices of pizza.

Harley thought they would eat in silence, but Dean wasn't having it. He asked needling questions that were designed to prompt women into a conversation, and later his bed. He wasn't trying to be a sleazy jerk, but he really didn't know any different way of conversing that didn't revolve around hunting supernatural monsters.

"Eat more," Dean said, interrupting his own line of question. "I saw you ate like, two sausages for breakfast -one of 'em you shared with that nasty snake-, and you weren't even interested in your food at the diner. If all you're going to have is caffeine and chocolate you're going to stay just as short as you are now." Harley glared and took an obvious bite of his pizza before Dean continued. He was no longer trying to draw him into a conversation, but was asking pointed questions and getting one or two worded answers in reply. It didn't seem to bother any of them, until Dean got to _The Question_. The mother of all questions that could make or break a night in bed for a Winchester (at least two out of three of them). "What kind of music do you like?"

Harley had quickly become used to the questions, and didn't mind in the least. It gave him insight to the guy he was working with, kept Dean from asking stupid questions of his own, and helped prevent Harley from saying too much. "I don't know," he said without much concern. When another question didn't immediately follow his answer he looked up to see Dean. The young Winchester's mouth was hanging open and bits of food could be seen just hanging there. His brownish-green eyes were wide in shock, as if he'd never heard such a blasphemous answer before. "Winchester, that's disgusting. Close your mouth, I can see your food."

Dean did as instructed and swallowed without chewing. "What do you mean you don't know?" The volume in which he asked the question caught the attention of the waitress and a few of the other customers.

As 'Harry Potter,' Harley had been the focus of many peoples attention. He learned to ignore it, but he could still feel the anxious eyes boring into his skin as he became more fascinated by his meal. "I told you I went to a boarding school," he hissed, "if the teachers didn't approve of something, we didn't have it. Usually." It was a convenient excuse, to be honest. He did recall the Weird Sisters from the Yule Ball, but they hadn't really caught his interest. He also remembered that his aunt usually frowned at music, and even Dudley didn't listen to much. He never actively sought to develop an opinion on the matter, but if Dean's reaction was anything to go by then he would form one soon. Simply to smooth over the hunter before it became an issue, he said clearly "Whatever it was you were playing in the car was nice."

"Nice?" Dean echoed, "Nice? It was freaking awesome," and then launched into a lecture and history of music. Harley listened with half an ear, skillfully put in his two cents when it was needed, and finished his meal quickly. He'd managed to finish a whole slice, which was bigger than both of his hands in width, and his second glass of soda.

"Are we ready to leave?" He asked nervously. It was already half-past two, and they still had errands to run. He worried that they wouldn't get back in time for Harley to clean and cook dinner, as a sort of thanks. He also worried that John and Bobby would be expecting them to return soon, because eight hours was an long time to be out.

Dean grunted in response and patting his full stomach. He paid and they left soon enough, taking the leftover's with them. Dean waited for them both to close their doors before he turned back to Harley, "Hey look, I've been meaning to ask you…Well, dad and Bobby weren't clear on how you got here. You're obviously from Britain, right? They only said that you were possessed by a demon when you got to Bobby's place."

"You're wondering how I came to be possessed and why it brought me all the way across the ocean?" Harley tried to fill in. When Dean nodded he let out a pitiful sigh, "this information isn't going to be cheap," he said plainly.

"You want me to pay you to answer my question?" Dean said incredulously. They had already pulled out of the parking lot and Dean was driving them to the closest library, they needed to look up the local obituaries and find out where Julia Vandercauf was buried -standard procedure.

"Not with money," Harley said carefully, "but you've already asked for a great amount of personal information, and I've asked very little in return." He was no longer paying a great amount of attention to the other hunter. He had laid down his deal, and it was Dean's choice to accept it or not. Instead of worrying, because he didn't want to answer Dean's question anyways, he turned in his seat and began fishing around for his pants. They were bound to be somewhere in between the mess that had become of the back seat, it was only a matter of finding them.

The bags from their shopping weren't overly extensive, but they were all mixed together and intertwined. He managed to separate the bags by store, and found his original clothe wedged underneath the back seat. He pulled them to the front seat with him, and began to roll down his stockings without shame.

"Dude, that's a total chick thing to do. I am not playing twenty questions with you," Dean snapped as Harley began to undo the laces of his shoes. Dean dutifully kept his eyes on the road as to preserve some sense of dignity for the boy who didn't seem to have much of his own. However, at some point over the next minute he glanced over to see if he was done and caught sight of a patch of darkened skin "Is that a tattoo? You're only fourteen?!"

"Oh, but that doesn't keep you from arguing with me," Harley shot back, and looked down. He hadn't noticed it earlier, because he was too busy swearing up a storm about having to wear women's clothing. His eyes went wide when he caught sight of the skin over his hipbone. He certainly didn't remember getting any tattoo, not like there was any time between all that had happened during the school year. He reasoned he couldn't have had it before the demon possessed his body, and the demon wouldn't have gotten it for him, so he must have gotten it after.

"That's odd," he commented to himself, running a thin finger around the blackened skin. It didn't feel raised to his touch or hurt in anyway, but it did tingle a little and flash in color as he pressed against it. "It must be my body's natural reaction to the possession," he said out loud, "then again no one like me has ever been possessed before."

"Why?" Dean asked, but Harley said nothing else. "Okay, fine! I take your bitchy deal, now could you please explain some shit to me?" Instantly Harley's magic began to seep out and washed over Dean briefly, "including what the hell that was, because I'm sure that ain't natural."

"It's natural," Harley said as if insulted, "and you should ask what the payment is before you make a deal. It's only good business." Dean turned to glare at him, "it was my…I don't know what you call it, hoodoo. It does that to everyone, and before you ask, I'm not sure why." Then Harley launched into a highly edited summary of some of his research. It was basically the same thing he told John and Bobby the first night, but he replaced words such as 'witches and wizards' with phrases like 'people like me,' and threw in a bit of his own reasoning as to why the star appeared on his skin.

When he was done with one explanation he slowly began to form another, for Dean's first two questions. Harley finished tying his shoes and huddled underneath his not-really-leather jacket, blissfully free of all other woman's apparel, as he continued to talk. They pulled into the parking lot of the library for reasons Dean hadn't shared.

"So what? They just kidnapped you from boarding school? Didn't anyone notice and try to stop him?" Dean snapped as he cut off the engine. His own ignorance and improper way of speaking was one thing, but the stupidity of a whole school full of people just pissed him off.

"It's complicated, and would probably take years to explain it all to you," Harley lied a little. In reality it might take a day to explain all of the different magical components to someone else, but it would take years for Harley to grow the courage to tell the hunter that he was a wizard. The fear of being seen and persecuted for his abnormalities was ingrained at the Dursley's form the very beginning; fear of being discovered and burned at the stake was thrust upon him from age eleven; and the most recent threat of death hovered over him -from the very moment John and Bobby found out he was a magic user. It very well could take years for Harley to trust someone else enough to tell them about magic in general, let alone what happened that night in the graveyard.

"Whatever," Dean said a bit too bitterly, "so after all of the stuff that you can't explain to me happened?"

They walked through the library, past the front counters, and well out of sight before Harley spoke again. He noticed the one thing that all the signs had in common were newspaper archives, and figured out what Dean was on about. "The man who kidnapped me was attempting some sort of ritual, and needed my blood. I -I don't really know how to explain it very well. I guess you can say that I made a connection with the properties of the moon and thrust my energy into the earth," it was the best he could do when he couldn't say the word 'magic,' or any like terms. "While my…energy was in the earth it reached out to the things like stones and precious gems that shared their properties and multiplied it. When it resurfaced I was no longer in full control of my abilities, and they washed over the graveyard. I was drained of all of my energy and passed out."

"That's how the demon found you?" Dean asked, pushing his way into the room that they needed to. The newest newspapers were still stacked neatly on the table in the middle, and pushed Harley to the filing cabinet that he thought the newest newspapers would be in. "Start form a month ago and work your way back."

Harley acknowledged the order and did what he was told without realizing it, making Dean smirk. "From the information I could collect while Tannin was inside of my mind," Harley chose his words carefully, as to minimize Dean's chances of making a dirty pun, "he crawled out of a nearby creak, possessing a small snake. It was all he could do really, because he didn't have the will power to fully take control of anything more intelligent then small animals. He was delighted to find me, I think." Harley paused as he looked through another page of obituaries before he replaced the newspaper and continued on his search. "His first goal was to find Bobby Singer, which meant crossing the ocean. Bobby seems to be a bit high on the demon hit-list. It had something to do with the things he provides to hunters."

"Yeah," Dean interrupted as if it made sense to him. The lazy ass was sitting down with his feet propped onto the table while he watched the young boy do all fo the work, "he outfit's a lot of cars for other hunters. Sometimes he gives them information, if their in real deep. Bobby's got to know more about rituals and demon's than anyone else on this side of the country."

"And the other side?" Harley asked, going through another newspaper. This time he found what he was looking for, in a Sunday edition of the local paper. He read through it's contents quickly before passing it to Dean.

"Great, she's buried kind of close to Bobby's place," the hunter remarked, ignoring Harley's previous question. "We can stop by the store for all of your highness' cleaning things and take a little stroll by tonight."

You can't dig up a grave in broad daylight, Harley thought to himself with much sarcasm. Before he could find the words to form a harsh reply they interrupted by the sound of the door opening and a shrewd looking woman entered quickly. Her thick heals making sharp noises against the floor, instantly annoying both of them. "You gentlemen aren't authorized to be in here without permission," she said pompously, trying to grab onto Harley and force him out of the room.

"Holy shit, Lady. You can at least ask nicely," Dean snapped back. He put himself between Harley and the woman before she could dig her acrylic nails into the younger boy, and ushering them both out of the dim room.

The woman followed closely until they reached the security panels by the door. Dean and Harley made a duel effort to say as many rude and scathing things about her at their normal volume, during the whole process. They didn't attempt to leave quickly, and chose to walk at their normal pace, and Dean even through a lecherous smile towards a woman at the front desk.

Only when they were on the other side of the wooden doors did Harley's green eyes narrow and glared at Dean. There wasn't even a point of shouting at him anymore, and Harley was beginning to suspect Dean just thought it was funny anyways.

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**To Those Who Just Read: **

Oh, there's not another bonus for this chapter. Poop.

To A Kira: You review every chapter and I can't reply to you in private messages. I like your reviews, by the way. I just wanted to make a point of telling you thanks, like I do all (okay, most of. I'm sure I've forgotten one or two) reviewers. I really appreciate the feedback.

Now on to my general opinion on the chapter: Harry's turning into a bit of a bitch, I'll have to be more careful form now on. I had intended to finish the hunt off in this chapter, but there were more steps than I had initially thought, so I think they'll finish up next time…Yeah, no…I don't know yet.

A lot of people seemed thankful that I didn't go on and list every single little thing Harry bought, an I tried to stay as true to that as possible. I did get into a little more detail, but it wasn't overwhelming. Oh, and I just had to describe Harry's girl-outfit. I couldn't help myself. Lets see, what else did I want to address….Well, there's a bit. I'll just leave it for the replies to reviews. Some of you know what I'm talking about. -wink wink-

I guess this is it for tonight…I hope the chapter turned out alright. I have a feeling that it's not quite matching the tone to the other chapters. -sigh-

I like quotes and reviews (I would say long reviews, but I don't want to tempt anyone else into leaving a long string of letters),

Alzipher


	7. Chapter 7

**To The Masses: **Originally I didn't have anything to say in the beginning notes. Now I do, so thank you 'Insulted for others,' and thank you for my first flame too. Now, I don't know if you're either one of those people can't understand sarcasm of you're just a self-righteous idiot, but I'm sure you'll tell me if you're keeping an eye out for a reply.

'50 Best Reasons Why Gay Marriage is Wrong!' is crack. It's so awesomely sarcastic I added it to my own profile and I'm not going to take the it down, because it's my profile and I'll put whatever the hell I want on it. I actually don't care about gay marriage either way, whatever floats your toast I say. I certainly don't have any plans of marrying anyone -_ever_. If I have babies it'll be out of wedlock and my parents will just have to deal. In fact, I'd like to rub it in a little by announcing that I am happy for my lesbian friends and support them in their choice to tie the knot, despite my preconceived notions on the tradition. I'd thank 'Insulted for others,' again for not being an ass and assuming things when you don't even have the whole story. (Look! Sarcasm!)

I will not apologize for my fondness of sarcasm or the mild (and admittedly immature) scolding of this reviewer. Anyone else who wants to send me a mean word on the matter; I'll go out and buy a purple silicon dick, just so you can suck it.

Possible conclusions my ass…-mumble mumble- On to the damn story!!!

**Warnings**: I'm angry! Plus all that other stuff.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Supernatural, Harry Potter, or Wal-Mart.

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**Chapter Seven**

'_Nothing happens to anybody which he is not fitted by nature to bear.' Marcus Aurelius _

Their trip to the local Wal-Mart was an eye opener for both of them. Dean had automatically assumed they would get only the very basic cleaning supplies and some pre-cooked food from the deli. He had never liked Wal-mart, and that dislike only grew as he got older. It seemed that every time someone stepped foot in that store they automatically felt compelled to gather and horde, finding things they didn't know they needed, and always spent twice the amount they had originally intended to. By the time he was old enough to see this pattern for himself he was convinced that Wal-mart was the work of the devil.

Harley had vastly different plans that Dean's grab-the-cheap-shit-and-run method. As soon as the young magic user got his hands on a cart he made a beeline for the homecare supplies, stopping only once ever few minutes to make sure that Dean was still in sight. It wouldn't do either of them any good if Dean set his eyes on a young woman and wondered off, leaving Harley for lost in an unfamiliar country. Once he reached an isle of cleaning supplies his mind was already set on his task; he started comparing prices, chemical concentration, and the smell of various products. The only thing he didn't pick out was the laundry detergent, because it had been Dean who insisted they always got the same kind.

There was a short detour to pick up some things Harley needed for person reasons. The basics; deodorant, underwear, socks. They were all thrown into the cart without a second reason, and if Dean thought it was because he knew which brands he liked he would be wrong. Harley picked up the least expensive toiletries he could find, and just wanted to get the shopping over with. There was a two story house, sitting by a salvage yard, and covered in dust that he needed to clean.

When they reached the grocery section was when their opinions began to cause some problems for each other. Dean was geared up to get nonperishable junk foods, familiar items that he could get at almost any corner-store while traveling across the country. He tried to get the message across to Harley that fresh meats and breads would only go to waste, but Bobby's new demon-child just glared at him.

"What do you suggest for dinner then, if you're so in charge?" Harley finally snapped, crossing his thin arms over his chest in a childish manner. His foot was still on the bottom rack of the cart, keeping it from moving, while Dean stood on the other side. They were having their stare-down in front of the poultry section, and catching the attention of many strangers.

Dean just stared right back, not at all bothered by the odd looks they were getting and dropped another bag of potato chips into the buggy before replying. "Chips, beer, and chicken," he said plainly, his tone was intentionally more controlled than the snappish attitude Harley had claimed as his own.

"I am perfectly capable of making chicken, if that's what you want," he replied in an attempt to make a compromise. Dinner was something he really wanted to make, to prove to John and Bobby that he could be of some use and wasn't planning on being a burden until it was time for him to leave. "Don't you want a home-cooked meal?" he pushed, thinking that no adult was above something so tempting.

"What makes you think you can cook at all?" because to be honest, not many fourteen year old boys were skilled enough in the kitchen to best even a deli chicken. When he was Harley's age the best he could do was Top Ramen or ravioli if it came in a can. By the time Sammy outgrew Lucky Charms Dean was old enough to drive, and would make food runs when they got hungry.

"I have been cooking since I was seven, long enough to know how to make the fried chicken you're so intent on having," he shot back without thinking, and turned away from the older man. He was already surveying the sealed packages of meat and picking out the freshest looking ones. He made it clear that his choice had been made, and there would be no more discussing it.

Dean did basic subtraction and calculated that Harley had been cooking for seven years, if he was telling the truth. That would be enough, and if the kid's food tasted like shit then he could always eat the left over pizza from lunch or get takeout. With a shrug he removed himself from in front of the cart and began to wander around the food section while keeping an eye on his charge. His patients with the kid had run out, and he didn't like that the munchkin had so effectively stripped him of his control in the situation.

Harley finished collecting all of the things they needed in silence, picking out more than he had originally intended just to spite the hunter. He didn't even wait for Dean when he finished and automatically made his way find a decent check-out line. A picture of a roast caught his eye, and he glanced around to see Dean walking towards him, so he picked up the Home Cooking rag and tossed it onto the belt with the rest of his things.

Neither of them said a word as Harley loaded the purchases into the Impala, or as Dean drove them back to Bobby's place with the music blasting. There was a lot of glaring involved, without any attempt at being subtle, but half an hour later they had reached Bobby Singers Salvage Yard. Dean cut the engine abruptly, after turning down his music, and left the car without an offer to help Harley.

In response to Dean's actions, Harley rolled his eyes and cursed the man aloud. There was no one there to hear him, or appreciate his creative use of the phrase 'goose pudding,' but it made him feel better. When he was done with he climbed out of the car without slamming his door despite his mood. There was no reason for him to take his grumpiness out on the Impala, it wasn't the car's fault that Dean was not agreeable.

When he got the back door open he realized the problem. The bench seat was full of bags from all of their shopping. There were the clothing bags, the stones, the shoes, and all of the purchases form Wal-Mart that included an impressive amount of food. Most of the bags were heavy and they were all big, or big compared to him. He could levitate them all, but he wasn't allowed to.

Then again, no one had told him he wasn't allowed to do magic. They only said that he was to claim to be a psychic, and if he had to pretend to be a spoon-bender he could also use a bit of levitation. His reasoning was sound, and a quick glance around let him know that there were no random muggles milling around. He stepped to the side to give himself room, and did what came naturally.

He felt the rustling of the energy inside of him, swirling and pulsing with a life of it's own. It was still leaking out, just as it had been that morning before Dean arrived, but it didn't make the magic any less agreeable. He concentrated and stretched it out like he would do any tangible muscle. When he was confident enough in what he was doing he wrapped the invisible energy around a bag from the top of the pile. It rose and floated in front of him, followed by a second, and a third.

Harley turned to face the house, still concentrating on the shape of his magic, and took a step forward. The connection stretched out further, and added more bags to the train. It didn't break, so he confidently took another step forward. He reached the front door without any signs of wavering and a trail of bags following him. He held his head high and schooled his features, and then stepped into the house.

He used his magic to keep the door propped open and pretended there was nothing odd about a mambo line of plastic sacks behind him. John and Bobby weren't around to see his impressive skills of levitation, but Dean had already thrown himself onto the living room couch with an annoyed look on his face. When the bags followed behind Harley his eyes became comically wide.

"How the hell are you doing that?" he snapped while his right hand reached behind him for his gun. His eyes automatically took in ever detail, including the cold look on the young mans face. His mind was doing the math; distance, plus type of gun and ammunition, with room for movement incase the little ass decided to make a break for it. He was half way into hunter-mode.

"I'm a psychic, you wanker," Harley snapped right back before turning and walking into the kitchen, his train of bags bobbing in behind him. When he reached the middle of the old linoleum floor he stopped, telling the bags to line up against the far wall. They sorted themselves by store and weight as Harley sent out more of his magic to start the dishes. Dish soap and sponges rose form a plastic bag and set to scrubbing, rinsing, and restacking.

With his first task underway he left the kitchen, and passed through the living room again. Dean was no where to be seen, and Harley contemplated what that could mean as he stepped out of the house. The car was still where he'd left it, so that meant Dean hadn't hightailed it out of town. He pulled the last bag out of the back of the car by hand, because he wasn't sure how the stones would react and if they would remain pure if he let his magic get too close. He had purposely withheld his energy from reaching the stones, even though they called to him. He shut the car door as soon as he'd retrieved the bag and made a quick retreat into the house. He let his magic on the door do, the springs relaxed making the wood slam on the frame, and Dean was still nowhere in sight.

He didn't see hide or hair of anyone for the next ten minutes as he cleaned the dishes magically and the refrigerator by hand. There were several things that would need to be stored, but the mess in the icebox looked like it could reproduce and he had no wish to eat moldy stake. He just needed something to do with his hands, and something to keep his mind off of the current living situation he found himself in. He tried to convince himself not to take anything Dean said or did personally, but everything that had happened in the last two days just made up a long list of bad luck. The possession, his magic going haywire, the guns, his parents ghosts, Dean Winchester, clothes, crossdressing, and he could go on and on and in greater detail -the thought of it all just made him scrub harder and more vigorously.

He was done within the first ten minutes, and that was when Dean returned from tattling to his daddy and Bobby. All three men just stood outside of the door and watched the dishes wash and rinse themselves and the groceries levitate into the fridge neatly. He could feel their eyes drilling holes into the back of his head as he stood on the counter top and continued dusting the highest cabinets.

He concentrated on the latent magic that seeped out of him, feeling in flow across their bodies and sense things about them he would have never considered possible. The shock caused him to waver a bit, but he slammed a hand against a shelf and grabbed on to steady himself.

This new sensation was quickly evaluated, and it was as if he could actually see them in his mind. Three strong and older men, each one was made of steal with a heartbeat that was scarily steady. He picked Dean out first, because the presence under his magic was the very person he spent the whole day with. He could tell Dean wasn't as upset with him as he first thought and enjoyed teasing him, but it was all locked in the back of his mind. The hunter in him came first, and Harley could feel the human predator dominated his mind. Those dangerous feelings were old and ingrained in him, but the part of Dean that recognized Harley as the tired and bitchy kid that he hauled around for nine hours -it was struggling to gain control.

John Winchesters presence was similar to Dean's, but changed somehow. He was less hostile, because he knew who and what Harley really was. Something about the older Winchester put fear in him, something that felt like loss and suffering. Bobby had it too, and it stained them somehow, but Bobby's mind was also more analytical. His cholesterol was also too high and he really needed to lay off of the booze.

Harley discerned all of that in a second, and the overwhelming a million other little things. The particles of dust that covered everything, the spider infestation colonizing in the pantry, _everything_. It all rushed back to him and his mind shut down under the pressure. Dishes that had been suspended in air fell and several of them broke on impact. The few groceries that were nearly to the fridge hit the linoleum floor, with a large splat in the case of an uncooked roast.

The three hunters watched from the door was everything crashed landed, and as Harley's body slumped over before it began it's decent towards the floor. In the time it took for them to realize they all couldn't get through the doorway at the same time, Harley lay on the dirty floor completely unconscious.

John got through first and crouched down next to the child, pressing thick fingers to his neck. Bobby and Dean had reached them as John found a frantic pulse. None of them spoke as Bobby went about checking the back of Harley's messy head and Dean proceeded to freak out while clearing away the shards of porcine that littered part of the kitchen.

"Dean," his fathers booming voice broke through his own throaty rant, which had been a mixture of worry and complaints about the boys behavior.

"He's probably just exhausted," was Bobby's diagnosis. "What the hell have you two been up today? I told you to take it easy, he hasn't exactly had an easy week." He stood back up with a pained grunt, because his knees just weren't what they used to be. Not to mention his aching back. "His head's fine, no blood and no tender spots. I think his backside took the brunt of the fall."

John stood up next, the kids pulse had begun to slow so he didn't need to worry about it. "Take him up to the guest room, Dean. Bobby and I have some things to talk about," with that said he turned his attention to the fallen groceries and picked up the things that had not made it into the ice box.

Dean crouched down next to the little hellion, despite the worry he felt he remained stoic. "You're gonna be a pain in my ass," he mumbled as if Harley hadn't already passed him off at least once that day. He bent over and scooped the youth into his leather clad arms, not at all surprised by the lithe form or the light weight. He continued to mutter things to himself as he navigated their way up the stairs, taking care not to hit Harley's head against the walls. He could already hear his dad and Bobby talking from the kitchen, but years of experience taught him that he wouldn't be able to eavesdrop successfully. He would have to wait, and if either men wanted him to know something then they would just tell him.

Harley felt as if he was waking up. He had a massive headache, but he didn't dare move or make a sound. At least not until he could remember where he was and if it was safe.

At first the thought he was back in the graveyard, being held against his will as the light from the full moon illuminated everything. He could even feel his power swell under the attention of the lunation. Only it didn't feel full, and he didn't know how he could tell when he hadn't even opened his eyes yet -he felt that he knew instinctively. If the moon wasn't full then it wasn't the same as that night, it couldn't be.

His memory spat out images of possessed babies and bubbling cauldrons, and Cedric's body. His head still hurt, the pain radiated from within and wrapped around his spine. He couldn't move to see the body, not that he really wanted to, but it was Cedric. It was the same seventh year Hufflepuff that took that first portkey with him, who held out his hand to help him up after he crash landed, who gave him the clue to the Mermaids Egg. Cedric was his friend and he just had to see, so he struggled against the pain that threatened to consume his body and slowly turned his head.

Cedric was there, he was half rotted already -but it had only been a few minutes since he was hit with the curse. His skin was melting and dripping off of the angular features of his face, and his cataract filled eyes were staring through him in lifelessness. His body was bloated, full of gasses that his muscles had released upon his death, and it split abruptly allowing his organs to topple out and onto the ground with a sloshing sound. His lipless mouth opened and let out a throaty noise that sounded as if he were sobbing.

Harley, no -Harry Potter's green eyes widened at the sight and bile burned it's way up his throat. He pushed the sensation back, but the nausea didn't abate. It didn't' matter, as he began to scream for the older boy. Tears fell and sobs wracked his body as he apologized and screamed for the young man, crying and pleading for forgiveness.

He needed to be forgiven, because deep down he knew it was his fault Cedric was that way. It was his fault that Cedric had been whisked away with him to that damned graveyard and it was his fault that the Hufflepuff wasn't resting in peace -it had been Harry Potter's magic that filled and fueled him. He had brought him back from death and made him into a mindless, fleshy puppet.

A deep chuckle broke through his cries and pleas, and his head wiped around to see who else was there. It was a man, or something that barely passed for a man. He was tall and his limbs were long and spidery, exposed underneath the moonlight. His skin was a pasty white, as if he'd never seen sunlight before, and his eyes were the ugliest shade of cloudy red over teal iris' and a black pupil. He'd seen those eyes somewhere, he knew that but he couldn't recall where.

"Who are you?" Harry chocked out, pushing at his restrains. His body felt too heavy, his limbs were too numb, and his whole being was pulsing with the pain that was borne from his scar. He blinked and tried to clear his mind as the man chuckled again, but he didn't answer. "Who are you?" Harry demanded with more conviction.

"We are the Dark Lord," someone else said. A voice that sounded feminine and fake, as if she were trying to speak an octave higher than was natural for her. Harry had heard a voice like that before, but not as a wizard. He'd heard a voice like that as a psychic, as Harley Singer.

A girl immerged from the shadows to the right of the tall, pale figure. She features looked familiar, but she also looked out of place in her pure white dress robes. As she took another step forward Harry recalled exactly where he knew here from, because she had Mrs. Vandercauf's pointed nose and upturned eyes.

"You're no Dark Lord," Harry muttered, "you're dead," he said a little louder. "You pushed your sister down the stairs and you haunt your parents house. Why?"

The girl clicked her tongue in disapproval and the pale man chuckled again, "he'd dead too, but there he is," she pointed to Harry's right with a bony finger and let out a squealing giggle.

Harry refused to look away from them, because you never turned on your attention away from your enemy. Another, more guilty part of him was afraid to look at Cedric and watch him rot before his eyes. "Why are you here?" his done was authoritative and demanded to know, and his anger was beginning to out way the shame and despair. If he wasn't careful then the power would lash out accidentally, and that usually did more harm than good.

"We're here to warn you, believe it or not," Julia said, looking around casually as if they were talking in between classes rather than in the middle of a graveyard.

"Not," Harry snapped back while trying to move and possibly escape, but he was still too heavy.

The pale man didn't chuckle again, and spoke instead, "believe what you want, little Potter." His voice sounded like gravel grinding underfoot, and he drew out his vowels like most pureblood aristocrats. "You'll end up like us; used and alone with nothing but your own thoughts. No one will care for you, and those who do will be so disgusted when they learn the truth."

Harry shuddered and his eyes began to tear up. He knew what truth they were talking about; the lashings that he received, the cold cupboard he was forced to retreat into, to heal alone. Then came _her_, that woman who took advantage of his wounds and weakness in the dead of the night. He could still hear the disgusting grunts as she smothered him, the smell of her putrid perfume that choked him, the feel of her bony fingers around his throat to keep him from screaming.

"You remember," the girl said, suddenly somber. "You'll always remember. Those thoughts will always be with you, and you'll never be the same again. You'll never be normal." The corner of her lip turned up in a sneer, "you're more likely to turn out like him," she jerked a finger towards the pale man.

He didn't look insulted, and a disgusting sort of amusement ran through his red eyes. "Little Potter, like me? Oh, I think the old coot learned his lesson the first time. You're more likely to end up in Azkaban long before you could reach my level of mastery." Both of them laughed at his misfortune and because of deep and unsettling mental problems.

"What do you want from me?" he shouted, "I won't bring either of you back. I won't, so you should both just leave me the hell alone!" He jerked his shoulder against his binds and chocked back a scream. The pain was getting worse, nearly explosive.

The pale man laughed loudly, "I'm already back Potter." He laughed again, holding a spidery hand to his sunken torso. He nearly doubled over in laughter, but caught himself. He straightened his posture, "No, I want nothing from you other than to see you dead at my feet. I'm just here for a little chat."

"I'm not here for any of that either," Julia said while shaking here head, her brown hair whipping around her as she did so. "I couldn't go back to that life. I'm here because I want you to save my sister. She'll be fine as long as I keep her sleeping, but as soon as your new daddy and his friend are done salting and burning my remains she'll wake up. If she wakes up she goes home, if she goes home she…" the sentence trailed off as something caught her attention. "Damn," she swore softly.

"What did he do to you?" Harry asked, his voice full of concern and a little anger.

"You _know_ what he did," she snapped, her eyes burning into his as she tried to relay an unspoken message. "You _know_," she spat, but just as she said so a hole barreled through her torso and she disappeared in a cloud of gray smoke.

"Until later, Potter," the pale man said before he sunk into the shadows.

That left Harry with no one but Cedric -dead Cedric. He turned his head back to see the crippling zombie that he'd created, "why?" he wanted to know. Why did he bring back the young man, when hew as better off dead. Hell, anything was better than being an animated corpse. He felt the emotions well up again, but something stopped him from screaming and tearing at his binds.

"Harley," someone was screaming in panic. "Harley you annoying, bitchy, little brat. Wake up, you're having a nightmare!"

It was Dean, his mind supplied. It was that arrogant, flirtatious, rude American jerk who was oddly kind in some incredibly inappropriate way. He was screaming his new name, the pseudonym that he'd chosen to live under and with Bobby. He was shaking his thin shoulder and trying to wake him up.

That meant he was dreaming, that Cedric wasn't really the corpse that he was watching fall apart. It wasn't real, and that meant he could wake up. He told himself that's what he should do, through the agony that was stabbing his brain like a million little needles. "Winchester?" he asked, but in his raspy tone it sounded more like he was saying 'Winesser.'

He opened one bleary green eye and stared up, ignoring the sting of the early morning light. A familiar face stared back down at him, looking too relieved. "Yeah," Dean said happily before he schooled his features to show less emotion, "I woke up and some dead chick was hovering just outside of that salt circle you got." he pulled away and sat on the edge of the bed, and on one of his feet so that he could face the young boy.

Harley opened his other green eye and surveyed the wood paneling on the ceiling before he tried to sit up. He still had a headache, but it was nearly nonexistent compared to the one he suffered in his nightmare. When he was certain he wasn't going to loose his last meal to a bout of nausea, he pushed himself up. He noticed his bags piled haphazardly on the long dresser that was pushed against the far wall, the feel of the salt underneath his seeping magic, and the sawed off shotgun that Dean was still clutching on to.

"She was warning me," he said uncertainly, but Dean didn't have a chance to reply as he continued on, "where are your dad and Bobby?" he certainly didn't feel them close by, which was a bit of relief. He wouldn't be able to handle the embarrassment if all three of them had stuck around.

"They went to salt 'n burn that chicks remains," Dean scanned the room, "which obviously didn't take as well as we thought it would." He got up and moved back to the chair, the one that was positioned so that he could see the whole room at once. "So -taking one bizarre event at a time, what do you mean she warned you? It looked to me more like she was torturing you."

Harley felt his face redden and looked down at his hands, noticing at once that he was in one of his new t-shirts and a pair of unfamiliar flannel pants that were much too large for him. "She was, in a way. Jaxie was right, she wasn't nice at all," he paused and thought of how he was going to phrase the rest of the information, "she was keeping her sister asleep. I suppose she didn't so much as push her sister down the stairs as she put her to sleep too close to them, and the girl just happened to fall."

"Okay," Dean said slowly, "and why on earth would she want to do that? Is she waiting for her sisters prince in shiny-white armor to kiss her or some fairy-tale shit like that?"

Harley rolled his eyes with such effort that it brought his head back, to rest against the headboard. "For protection," and he would have been content to leave it at that, if it weren't for the waves of confusion that suddenly assaulted his senses, "from their father."

"Alright, so why do they need to be protected from daddy-dearest? I thought it was the mom that was keeping her sick."

Harley smirked, "No, and it seems you owe me your favorite Zeppelin shirt, because she felt absolutely nothing for her mother -let alone anger strong enough to keep her from resting in piece." He was perfectly aware that he hadn't answered the question, because he didn't want to say it out loud. Julia was right, he did know what that man had been up to. He knew what kept Mrs. Vandercauf scared and disgusted and what he was doing to his two daughters since they turned fifteen, but admitting to that felt like admitting something about his own past.

For a girl named Chloe, who was still being held in a coma in some unknown hospital, so that a man who deserved it could be punished, Harley parted his lips with an intent to say it. "He," Harley began slowly, "raped them." He could feel the tears welling up in the corner of his eyes as he thought about all that it meant, but he wouldn't cry -especially in front of a jerk like Dean Winchester.

"How do you know?" Dean asked, but Harley only shook his head and refused to look at him. He knew it was fishy, and he filed the reaction away for later. "Alright, next weir- bizarre thing on the list. You're not a hunter," he said as if that raised so many questions.

"I suppose not, does that bother you?" Harley replied smartly. Their banter would be a perfect distraction from his own thoughts, but he also didn't want to upset Dean again. The young man had been there to shoot Julia's ghost full of rock salt, when he was helpless and asleep. He owed Dean enough to at least not launch straight into a rant about his lack of intelligence.

"You tricked me," Dean said, meaning that he really was bothered. "If I hadn't talked to dad and Bobby, and took you out to the graveyard or we were on the tail of something more dangerous then it could have gotten both of us killed. So one of their new rules is no hunts, not until they're sure you're trained enough to handle one."

Harley stiffened at the possibility that Dean told them everything of their day. "How much do they know?" he asked cautiously.

"Everything from the story we got from the thrift-store to what we found in the library," he paused to scratch at his chin stubble. "What I don't get is how you, someone who is not a hunter, was so damn good at…Well, everything we did yesterday."

Harley's eyebrows rose and he sat up straight again, "I've been out for a day?" He finally looked over at Dean to answer his question, but only got a glare in return. Instead of falling back into the bed like he wanted, he pushed aside the heavy covers and climbed out of bed.

Dean was instantly on his feet again, intent on pushing the young boy back into bed. All of his attempts were skillfully thwarted, barely. Dean had training of his own, but it was proven that he could barely contend with the Seekers dodging and weaving. When Harley reached the far wall without so much as a stumble Dean figured he was just well enough. "Dude, do I need to spell it out for you? Why are you so good at hunting if you're not a Hunter?"

"Oh," Harley muttered to himself. He thought to himself as he went through his bags and pulled out the toiletries and a fresh pair of clothes. "I suppose I have some experience with the matter. The first matter -know what you're up against- just seems common since, then you find where your problem resides, and finally you…" Harley wasn't comfortable with the word 'kill' and neither was it accurate. "get rid of it," he finally said.

"So you're not all freaked out that you were going after a ghost? One that just gave you one hell of a nightmare? I mean, you were thrashing and screaming and everything," Dean pointed out. He noticed the young man flinch, and -having a whole day's worth of experience- knew he was about to tell him something he didn't really want to.

"It wasn't really a nightmare, well -it techniqually was," Harley carried his things but stopped at the door. "It was a memory of the night I was possessed, and she pulled it to the front of my mind. Once that was done she manipulated it, to show me horrible things. Then she warned me before you shot he," his highly edited version of his vision seemed enough to satisfy the young man. "Thank you," he said so quickly that Dean wasn't sure he heard him right, and then Harley retreated to the bathroom as fast as he could.

"Well, he sure is a bundle of weirdness," Dean muttered.

From the only window came a hoot of agreement, startling the Hunter. He turned quickly, his sawed off was already pointed at the white owl. It hooted again in confusion, tilting it's head in a freaky 'Exorcist' type manner.

"Dude, I must be loosing my freaking mind," he shouted in the empty room, waving his gun in annoyance. When the owl gave him a reproachful look he decided to follow Harley's example and just leave, he needed to keep an eye on the brat anyways.

Hedwig gave an exasperated hoot before fluttering into the room and settling on the headboard of Harley's new bed for a good snooze.

* * *

**To Those Who Just Read: **

This chapter doesn't make a whole lot of sense, I guess. I was content at first, near the end of the Wal-mart trip I was mad, and by the time I had finished the nightmare I had confused myself. I worked everything out though, so bring on the questions that I know are pretty much inevitable.

Uhhh….What's next?

Thank you to all of the reviewers, even if I didn't reply to you personally. Some of the smaller reviews (under five words) stump me. I know how to give long winded replies to medium to long reviews, but I'm not so sure what to say to 'Great. Update soon.' -shrug-, just know that I appreciate them.

This chapter was delayed because I was waiting for my Beta reader to do her stuff, but…this chapter is still unedited. I didn't like waiting so long, but when I get the edited versions I'll replace the old chapters. It'll probably flood peoples emails, but it's all in the name of good grammar.

Updates will still be slow in coming, but hopefully not too much. I had a wonderful Harry Potter/Lord of the Rings crossover idea that was semi-original, and I've been working on developing and writing it. If any of you are interested; the first chapter will be posted soon. I just need to figure out who I want to shorten 'The Effects of Dead Butterflies and Singing Stars,' to something that uses less characters. Oh, and there are a couple of pesky plot-holes that are threatening my sanity over the matter.

I look forward to a different writing style, but I think BS (What an unfortunate and amusing acronym -shrug-) is my baby. The American slang and laid back way of phrasing things is natural, but the Tolkien writing style looks like a fun challenge. Maybe one day I'll also become the Queen of Crossovers, but right now I am only a…a…-thinks- a fan girl scrapping the bottom of the barrel for original ideas.

As I'm writing I may even have thought of a way to work that 'suddenly in Middle Earth/tenth walker' angle, so that it might not seem so annoying and Mary-Sueish. Eh, maybe it would be safer to stay way from that one for a while (or forever).

Thank you again, incase I don't say that enough.

I like quotes and reviews,

Alzipher

P.S. Oh, incase their fist hunt wasn't anti-climactic enough…there'll be a bonus in the next chapter for it, to celebrate over 100 reviews.


	8. Chapter 8

Alzipher, the author, sat behind her worn desk mulling over various stories and ideas. She wondered, should she update a story that's already been posted, or start work on her newest fanfic idea? The very notion that seemed to have snuck up with ease and dug it's claws into her skull, and involved something she hated very much -writing small children. Maybe it would be better off to hold off on that in the end.

She pushed the rolling chair back, with great force so that it might actually move against the carpet for once, and pondered some more. There were plenty of things she could update, but out of seven of her already-posted stories there were only two that she remained fond of. Another glance at the clock and new thoughts sprung from seemingly nowhere; if she wanted to get up and dressed to see that movie on time she would have to go to sleep soon. It wouldn't be easy to find sleep so early, but it seemed worth it at the time.

One more task had to be done before she could shut down her laptop though, so she quickly leaned forward -almost swiftly enough to loose balance and land face first against the key board- and navigated her way to her 'inbox.'

Four new emails, three of them alerts of a story being added to this persons favorite list or that persons alert list. One was a review -awesome. With a quick double lick of the mouse the email opened and loaded. It read simply;

'more? J'

She inhaled too quickly and too loudly, momentarily losing balance and slumping to the side of her old rolling chair. It was so horrible, she thought maybe her eyes would bleed. That wasn't the case, and she exhaled as silently as she could. It wouldn't do anyone any good if she'd screamed or shouted, and she even considered fainting from the lack of oxygen for a moment, but in the end she didn't.

Alzipher's brain exploded instead.

**To the Masses: **I'm not sure, but I think I know who really sent that review. That horrible, brain exploding review. It would serve you right if…if….oh, screw it. I realize I haven't been updating like I should. You see, my excuse is rather simply; I gave up soda for Lent and have been going through caffeine withdrawls…or something like that. It includes, but isn't limited to, severe headaches. I don't like writing with headaches (or while PMSing) because the accompanying mood swings usually result in stories taking a turn for the worst. Well, usually I write it all out, calm down, and then delete it all because I hate it. -shrugs- and that is my Grand Excuse.

I will say I'm not a particularly religious person (or not at all), but Lent is a great challenge. My mom and I usually make a point of seeing which one of us lasts longer. I've won the last three or so years. You can't give up anything easy in our house either, because my family is just that difficult. I think my brother gave up smoking (witch I admit is harder than mine, and I have grown to respect him a bit more), mom gave up Face book (and she really is that obsessed, and I wonder if asking my sister to keep up with her face book instead is considered cheating), and I gave up caffeine. Da and my sister don't usually participate, but they do enjoy our pain. The winner get's to pick what we eat on Easter.

**Warnings: **AU, Slash, mentions of abuse, mentions of sexual abuse, -inhales-, Manipulative Dumbledore, choppy concepts, awkward sentence structures, Cunning Harry, inspires more questions and answers, underage drinking, underage smoking, cradle robbing, other illegal things, cross-dressing, erratic updates, at this point I'm just adding crap, and more to be added in later chapters.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter or Supernatural. Though, I wish I owned the goblins. I like goblins…

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

_'__We stand in life at midnight, we are always on teh threshold of a new dawn,' Martin Luther King, Jr. _**  
**

Some things are just anti-climactic they could make you mad. Such was the case when Harley solved the case of the Vandercauf's with one well placed, anonymous call to the local police and telling them all that he could about Julia's father. He claimed to be a young woman from the same school, and that he wished to remain unknown. Later that night they all watched Clint Vandercauf's arrest on the evening news. Harley said nothing as he watched, keeping the bubbling anger he felt inside under wraps, and when it was over he went to the kitchen to make pie.

Harley wasn't upset because the resolution was so simple, but because the abuse had been allowed to happen and carry on for nearly three years. Of course he made no mention of the crimes that Petunia had committed against him, but he could feel the pity radiated off of the other blokes. John's own period of sympathy lasted until Harley pinned him with a fierce glare, and the older man had immediately realized that those feelings weren't welcome. Bobby seemed to have rationalized things as best as he could, and while a little bit of the forbidden feeling still coated his actions he had resigned himself to help and offered to be there should Harley feel like talking. Dean had been distracted by pie.

The immature twenty-something year old had continued to be an enigma to Harley. One minute he was ranting on about something small, like Harley's ever present urge to clean, and the next minute was concerned and mature. The man admitted rather proudly that he didn't know a damn thing about modern music, and insisted very strongly that his car was the only woman he would ever care deeply for. His only redeeming factor was that Harley could easily squeeze him for information about almost anything if he chose to, and he didn't seem to mind. Oh, and the coffee. It had been Dean Winchester that showed him how to use the coffee maker and put on a pot without even being asked to the second morning that Harley was there.

On the third morning both Winchester's were gone. The nearly clean house seemed more empty that before, and even Bobby seemed less exuberant. Harley found himself staring down at the coffee machine with only a little sadness, wondering where John and Dean went, what they were hunting, and if they would be safe. He also wondered when, not if, they would return. It took another minute to convince himself that there were things to do and he couldn't spend all day doing nothing. He still had Bobby, and that thought started another train of thought.

In the end Harley had to get Bobby to start the coffee maker, and received a bit of grumbling in return. Harley learned the second day that his new foster-father kept odd hours, but Dean assured him that he wouldn't get shot as long as he made no sudden movements before his first cup of coffee. Harley didn't think that would be a problem, because he wasn't much of a morning person either.

He hadn't been there very long, only three days, but he had someone. Bobby was there, and expected him to be for the next few years at least. He had promised that the young boy would start high school when august rolled around. Bobby even offered to set him up with a completely new identity, so that he could officially be 'Harley Singer' and not 'Harry Potter: Boy-Who-Lived, Tri-Wizard Champion, Hogwarts Student,' and even a few titles that he was sure were floating around that he didn't know about.

Harley had declined the offer to set him up with an identity, and the afternoon that Hedwig had arrived he had sent her off again with a letter to Gringotts Bank. He was expecting a reply soon after, but didn't hope that it would arrive for a few business days. Harley had told the snowy owl to take her time, and to rest if she became tired. He was in no great hurry, but he still knew that his familiar would rush to reach the goblins. It wasn't in Hedwig's nature to do anything slowly, and he expected that she would need a lot of rest once she returned.

By that afternoon Harley deemed everything clean. Well, almost everything. He had cleaned the kitchen and small breakfast corner to be clean the day before. He needed somewhere to cook and eat, and he couldn't do that in the middle of the mess. The linoleum was still dingy, from age rather than dirty, and the wallpaper still curled in some corners and was discolored in other area's.

The foyer had been easy and required minimal effort, but Harley knew it would take a while to convince Bobby not to leave everything by the door when it suited him. The adjoining sitting room and television looked easy upon first glance, but Harley soon discovered a Dust Bunny colony. Dean and John were sitting on that very couch when Harley had made his announcement. John's face had gone blank and Dean instantly began questioning his mental health.

Harley demonstrated just what he meant when he jammed his hand between the cushions and rooted around for a few moments before pulling the offending creature out between his thumb and index finger. It was a mature adult, but couldn't have been bigger than a tennis ball, covered in curly gray fur that looked like dust, and it's mouth took up half of it's 'body,' opening to reveal razor sharp teeth.

"Holy shit," Dean had screamed, instantly jumping off of the couch and pointing his gun at the thing. Harley rolled his eyes at the typical Dean-like action. His father stood just as quickly, but Harley's senses told him that he was too shocked and his thoughts hadn't yet shifted into 'hunter mode.'

"This," Harley lectured while shaking the thing between his fingers, he listened to hit admit a high pitched squeal before he continued, "is a fully matured Dust-Bunny. They usually populate magical homes, but they could have slipped in with a couple of Bobby's old books. Now, a colony is somewhere between a twenty and a hundred of these things. Babies around about the size of a small marble, and they don't need two to reproduce. They're hermaphrodites and only need to eat enough dust to reproduce on their own."

"What the hell?" Dean shouted, his gun was still out and his eyes were fixated on the little thing Harley was holding. More specifically they were glued to the sharp teeth that were being exposed in his direction. He watched as Harley flung it to the side and it landed in a pail of water by the door.

"You're going to help me hunt them all down," Harley said with conviction, his green eyes were narrowed in a challenging way.

He had initially only meant to sequester Dean into helping, but John latched onto the task just as quickly. In the end they were able to locate over sixty Dust-Bunnies of all ages, and all of them had multiple battle wounds. The most interesting had happened when a Dust-Bunny had latched onto Dean's finger and he had tried to fling it off of his finger, but it when in the opposite direction instead and bit into his nose. Harley had to pour water on it to get it to let go, after he stopped laughing.

After the Dust-Bunnies were cleaned up Harley set to finishing the television room, dusting everything twice to make sure the offending creatures wouldn't repopulate. Then he moved onto the stairwell and the bedrooms. Bobby's room had been easy, the most difficult thing about it was getting all of the extra books into his designated 'library,' and washing all of his clothes. The older man didn't seem fazed at all by his personal space being violated, but Harley just assumed Bobby had seen it coming. The older man was kind enough to tell him that he didn't have to worry about the hall closet or one of the back bedroom that he had been using for additional storage.

He was happy to get to his own room, which Bobby had flat out told him was his but he would have to share it when Dean was in town. Apparently John could take the guest room, but it was too mean to make the younger hunter sleep on the couch. He had done so reluctantly the night before, but that was only until Bobby could find some sort of cot or trundle bed for him. Harley shrugged, he was just happy that he didn't have to sleep in the closet or any other cupboard. He left the salt where it was, using his magic to shape and harden it, and then flattening it into the floor. He added a few runes on the outside, adding protection from people with harmful intentions towards him in a bout of paranoia.

He folded all of his clothes neatly, organizing the chest of drawers with care. He saved some space for Dean's things; extra clothes that he kept around were also folded, his favorite weapons were put on hooks against one wall but otherwise went untouched, and a large bag of salt was left under the bed.

The only room that was left was the library, which Bobby told him he would not be cleaning on his own. The old man had a certain way of doing things, a method of organization that Harley didn't know about, and so he readily agreed. He didn't want to screw up the man's home.

They might have gotten that done by lunch, if Harley hadn't stopped every other minute to look into one book or another. He would have felt guilty for prolonging the chore if Bobby hadn't been doing the same thing, and more often.

The finished product was something to be proud of though; books were all on shelves instead of stacks or piles, they were all sorted into category and then various subcategories (Demons: Catholic, Hindu, Native American, and more. Much, much more), and they were all dusted. Bobby had walked in on them while they were hunting Dust-Bunnies and laughed his ass off, but he still knew better.

Harley spent some time trying to convince Bobby to move his herbs into the kitchen, where they would blend in better and Harley could use a few while cooking (Sage was good for purifying and on meat). The healing stones also went into small mason jars, sorted by type, and took up a small fraction of a wall.

Finally there were weapons, Dear Merlin and Jesus Christ were there weapons. Bobby owned blades in at least twenty styles, some in sliver, some in stainless steal, and a few of them had pentagrams carved into them; the ones that weren't tucked into various hiding spots were put away neatly. Guns were also plentiful in the Singer house, and the ones that weren't put into Bobby's gun case were hidden in easy to reach locations were put in an old Italian trunk with there rest of the knives.

If that wasn't enough, Bobby also owned a plethora of charms; religious, spiritual, and magical. When they were done storing those they still had a mountain of loose paperwork to go through. Rather Bobby had to go through it, and Harley had go cook dinner.

The day wore on him not so much because he wasn't used to it, but because he wasn't allowed to do magic for a while. Bobby and John had talked it over and theorized, the day before John left, that Harley had passed out from magical exhaustion.

Harley had sighed miserable, like he did every time he had to explain something he didn't want to, and told them what he knew. "It wasn't magical exhaustion," he said bluntly, "I've plenty of magic, too much in fact. It seems that it multiplies whenever I push it through the earth, and it hasn't returned to it's normal state. If it every does, which I doubt it, then I might have been a little tired.

'When I was cleaning the kitchen I had to stretch it out so that I could levitate the dishes and the food, and it expanded through the whole kitchen. When everyone showed up and stepped into that field I just wanted to know what you were doing, so I sort of," He paused to search for the words, "Changed the priority from cleaning to gathering information. I suddenly knew everything they were inside of the kitchen, down to the last splinter. I also knew you where there, that you were all shocked and what your moods were. I also know that Bobby needs to watch his cholesterol and needs to cut back on the drinking. Then I just knew too much, and I couldn't take it any more."

"Sensory overload," John had instantly diagnosed. That sounded right to Harley and so he nodded. "What we said still stands though; don't do anything intentional for a couple of days until you've healed up some more."

Harley had just nodded an accepted that fate, and even though John was away he was still keeping in contact with Bobby just to see if he was listening.

On his fourth day as Harley Singer he had almost nothing to do. He had cleaned everything, started the laundry, cooked breakfast, and hadn't even thought to sit down and watch television like a normal fourteen year old boy. Instead he pulled a book on Irish Faerie tales down off of a tall shelf and started reading. He even got through three of the lengthy chapters before Hedwig flew through the open window.

Harley gave a lopsided smile as she landed on the arm rest next to him and stuck out her leg with authority. Her feathers were a little ruffled and she seemed rather tired, but she waited patiently for her friend to retrieve the letter before she flew off again. She didn't go far though, just into the kitchen so that she could perch on the back of a wooden chair and sleep.

Harley's smile didn't disappear immediately, but faded slowly as he looked down the letter and then opened it. He checked that the Gringotts seal was unbroken and then for the watermark at the letterhead before he began to read.

'_Dear Mister Potter_,' it read,

'_We can assure you that we at Gringotts will make all of the necessary arrangements for your confidentiality as well as facilitating you with all of the requested paperwork. _

_At your request we also fitted your owl, Hedgwig with the goblin-made charms against thieving and tracking and have withdrawn the bill from your trust account._

_The books you have requested will reach you in one to three business days by warded Gringott's post-birds. Enclosed you will find a list of the texts that we were able to find and procure, as well as a separate list for the books we were not able to locate as well as one for recommendations._

_For your convenience, we at Gringotts have seen fit to send you a goblin-made checkbook as well as instructions of on the how-to of using it. Along with your books you'll see we have taken the initiative to send several catalogs from local shopping area's. _

_On a matter of business that we at Gringotts feel imperative to mention; we have sent you your most recent bank statements, as well as paperwork that should have been completed and filed away upon your reentry to the World of Wizardry. This matter of business has suddenly become an issue for you and we at Gringotts by the hand of Albus Dumbledore (followed by various titles) when he sought the information of your affairs after your rather sudden disappearance. _

_Please reply promptly_," this was followed by a line of something in the goblin language that he could not understand, and it ended with "_Goblin Griphook_"

Harley read through all of the parchment, making note to fill out the official paperwork after he talked to Bobby about it. He read through all of the lists, circling books on the 'recommended' page and folding that list along with the one of books that couldn't be found into a front pocket. Once he gathered all of the paper on his new identity he stood and made his was outside.

When Bobby wasn't researching or doing various favors for hunters he was out in the garage, a nasty old building that seemed permanently greasy, and working on repairs. He didn't have a lot on his to-do list but he said he was tired of being cooped up in the house. He was grateful it was clean and organized, but he needed to get some work done.

"Bobby," he called as he neared the metal building. He could see the man sliding out from beneath the car and rubbing the grease off on his old coveralls. "I got my paperwork in," he said politely, once he reached the company of the old man.

Bobby reached out and took the paperwork from the young man and looked it over with critical eyes. When he was done, over five minutes later, he whistled as if impressed. "That's some people you know kid," he ignored the glare that usually followed 'kid,' and continued on, "there's not one damn thing wrong with any of it, but where are those medical records."

Harley shrugged once, "They'll be coming in one to three business days or something like that. That's also when the books and some catalogs are meant to arrive."

"Well I'm glad we got that out of the way," Bobby paused as if he was about to get great joy from his next statement, "for your doctors appointment next Monday." The shocked and nervous look on Harley's face was the one he was hoping for, and he laughed.

"For what?" Harley demanded after Bobby had made he way around to the other side of the car.

"You need to get some booster shots before you can go to school, now get over here so I can teach you how to check the oil," and because Bobby said so, Harley did just that and if he were any less of a person than Bobby would have gotten laxatives in his pie that night.

**Bonus (For not updating like I promised)**

Severus Snape stared down at the evil that marred his forearm, and without even blinking he raised the tumbler to his lips. The Old Ogden's Firewhisky burned doing down, but he didn't notice or care. All he wanted was to drink until his mind got hazy and then keep going, at least until he passed out. It would be well worth the hangover in the morning (for that brief period of time between waking and finding that bloody handover potion) just to forget his situation for a couple of hours.

The Dark Lord was back, and that was his main issue. Of course with the resurrection of the move vile and evil man since the 1040's came the man who opposed, Albus Dumbledore (and his mouth full of awards and official titles). At least he didn't have to worry about being in the winning side because he was a spy, a double agent, and lied about everything under the sun if it insured that he could live and brew potions.

With his role in the inevitable war he was expected to do many things, and this included keeping his stories straight. This was a task that would cause more migraines than a first year who wanted to mix things in potions class just to see what happens. Or worse, a Weasley who wanted to do the same (Fred and George being the two most distinct Weasley's that ever caused destruction to date, though their dearest sister seemed to be close behind).

Not to mention that blasted Potter brat was still missing. Then at the thought of a scrawny version of James Potter with beloved Lily's eyes spawned memories of 'that night.'

_That night _that two ghosts appeared in his bedchambers while he was wondering if he really needed that arm (the one with the before mentioned evil that marred his pale skin) and if his potion brewing would be hindered by the loss of that very same limb. It was _that night _when he learned that the Potter brat wasn't really a brat at all, but was actually a very good liar that could make it all of the way to the back of the restricted section and pluck off any book that he wanted without setting off a single alarm. He learned that the Potter brat (who still wasn't a brat no matter how much Severus wished he was) would have the audacity to be happy in a country far away from Hogwarts, where he didn't have to teach bothersome children how to follow simple instructions.

Severus paused a moment to ponder his turn his thoughts had made, only to realize that he was a tad jealous of James Potter's spawn -those thoughts were promptly smashed as Severus took another sip of from his tumbler.

Lily, rather the ghost that used to be a living and breathing Lily, told him of the a demon that possessed her son and how he was saved. Then she told him where she could find the little waste of human parts (and valuable potions ingredients) if he really, really needed him. She then defined the 'really, really needing' part, and that clearly didn't include of Dumbledore or the Dark Lord quickly reaching insanity because they couldn't even _find_ him. And Lily's magic was rather distinct, binding him to keep the promise that was proposed to him.

Now Severus knew where to find the most sought after person since Merlin disappeared off of the face of the planet, but he couldn't tell a single soul.

It didn't help his already stressed mind that James Potter, the worst creation since the vomit flavored Jelly Bean, sat in the corner during Lily's visit and mumbled incoherent things (but Severus would swear up and down that James had only been calling him names, because they were both immature prats).

Then, just as soon as Lily had finished her patented 'You must turn to the light,' speech, something had appeared. Severus couldn't see it of course, but according to their sheepish expressions and what part of the conversation he could hear he assumed it was a Reaper that hey had tricked into brining them back to the plane of existence that living humans populated. Lilly had tossed him one more smile, the only thing he felt that was worth remembered during that whole night, and said her last goodbye.

Severus took another, deeper drink of his Firewhisky. Something she had said still bothered him though, something that he hadn't been able to figure out just yet. She was giving her usual 'the path of dark is bad' rant, but it was different somehow. Not once did she said 'Go to Dumbledore,' or 'Dumbledore can help,' and not even 'Dumbledore is the leader of the light.' There wasn't a mention of the old man at all. In fact, she had only mentioned that Harley Singer as the person that would bring his downfall. If Severus remembered correctly, and he did not matter how many glasses of Firewhisky he already had (it was just that disturbing), then Harley Singer was the new identity of Harry Potter. Of course he couldn't even say as much to either of his masters because of Lily's magical version of a pinky swear.

Severus finally tore his eyes away from his own arm as the temperature in the room dropped rather suddenly. A single glance to his left told him that the Bloody Barron had just arrived through the only wall that Severus hadn't lined with salt. The ghost's usual pensive expression was traded for one of anger and a bit of confusion.

"I see you've had your round with the Headmaster," Severus sneered. He was rewarded with a dirty look in return, one that would have led to bloodshed if the other man weren't already dead.

"The man is going mad looking for Potter. I tell you, if he does not find the boy soon he bloody well will be," the Bloody Barron had quickly abandoned his anger for one of mild confusion and dreariness.

"Well, what did you tell him?" Severus asked with no tone to his voice. He took another sip of Firewhisky and waited.

The Bloody Barron gave a loud sigh of frustration, "I will tell you what I told him; if the boy wanted to be found he bloody well would have been. It has been obvious from the very start that the lad has a lot of Slytherin in him, and I am not speaking only about his ability with Parceltongue. The young man knows how to hide, how to sneak. He knows telling the truth will usually get him further than lying, and that telling a few bad lies will make other untruths more believable when he needs them to be."

"Why Barron," Severus did his best impression of a Malfoy Drawl (because face it, that family pretty much owned it), "I didn't know you took such a deep interest in young boys."

The Bloody Barron was hardly affected by that statement, "Severus, I did not know you could stoop so low."

Severus shrugged in response, "so what do you really know then? I'm very aware that everyone, aside from the staff, seems to know something."

"If I tell you, you will not like the outcome," The Bloody Barron warned. When Severus' eyes narrowed in a challenge he continued, "Very well." He paused for a moment, wondering where to begin. In the mean time Severus took another swig, "the young man has a power over us all."

"Like the imperius?" Severus asked. He leaned towards the ghost in interest.

"Dear Merlin, no." the Bloody Barron paused again, "it started in his first year, probably the first night. He gave something to a single student, an unexpected gift. In return he received payment in the form of something that person found valuable. Then he gave another gift, probably the payment he received for the first one, and received something that the second person found of value."

"Are you saying," Severus interrupted, "That Potter was just trading things amongst his little friends?"

The Barron shook his head, "not just his friends Severus. Mister Potter touched the lives of almost every student that has passed through the halls of Hogwarts since he started school. And I also do not mean that he has just trading little trinkets for other little things, or that he kept any for himself. I can give you an example, a small one, but it might help you understand."

A moment later when the Bloody Barron didn't continue Severus snapped, "Well?" he was waiting.

"Miss Brown of Gryffindor was apparently having a bad day in the middle of their third year, and told Mister Potter that she had just separated from a young lad that was courting her. She was dreadfully upset, so Mister Potter reached into his pocket and gave her a tiny charm. I do not know what it resembled, only that it was silver in appearance, and with that he told her that 'the first breakup is the hardest, but there's no need to be sad about it. It will happen again and again, but you need to go through that pain to reach something even better.' So Miss Brown took the charm and gave her thanks, and took the blue ribbons out of her own hair and handed them to Mister Potter.

'Naturally I followed him for a while, wondering what a young lad needs with blue ribbons. It only took a day for me to find my answer; for a young first year. He found this young girl crying beside the portrait of Jaxis of New Mark. They talked, and the young first year admitted to missing her mother. So Mister Potter took the blue ribbon from his pocket and asked the girl if he would like her to tie back her hair. She girl was confused, but apparently saw no reason to say no. Mister Potter tied the ribbon in her hair, one on each side and said 'Your mother misses you too, I know,' and his words were truth, one could tell easily, 'you can look at the blue ribbon and remember her eyes, and remember the way she fixes your hair, and know that you'll be able to see her again. However, until then you need to learn so that there is a reason for you to be here, so missing her will be worth it in the end.' Then from this young girl he received a slip of parchment that she was keeping between the pages of her Charms book, but by then there was no reason to follow him. I already knew what he was doing."

Severus turned to the fire and contemplated the words of the Slytherin House Ghost. "So Potter is weaving a web of relationships, of giving and taking like some seasoned Mage," out of the corner of his eye he could see the ghost nodding, "That is ridiculous! There hasn't been a Mage for nearly three hundred years!" he protested.

"Do you not think it is about time that there comes a new one then?" the Bloody Barron sneered, "and do take into account that just because the human's know of such magic does not mean that the Fair Folk or the Dragon's have not seen a Mage appear in their lines either."

Severus didn't answer, instead he leaned back in his chair and began to sort through his thoughts once more. His tumbler was forgotten in favor of coherent thought, as the Potions Master continued to think.

**The Bonus (For the great reviews and adding me to your alerts/favorites lists)**

_It was Josephine Darcy (author of the Marriage Stone, right here on fanfictionnet) that said, '__I hate to see Sirius and Remus in separate rooms let alone separate relationships.'_

Remus Lupin lay in bed with Sirius Black's head resting against his shoulder, the pale man's leg was carelessly tossed across his werewolf's tights. The blankets had been tossed on the floor earlier, and Remus knew he was going to have to be the one to retrieve them because Sirius would be asleep soon.

He didn't regret it though, because it had been almost an entire week since the last time they had been so passionate. In fact they had been in the exact same position, but Sirius was the one being used as a breathing pillow, when Lily and James had suddenly appeared. Ultimately it had been James' expression when his brain had processed what he was seeing. Neither man could so much as look at one another in the week following without one or both of them bursting out in laughter. Afterwards there had been the rant that followed, and that was followed by a typical Lily-slash-James argument.

The last bit of drama had given both men time to find pants and slip them on before their ghostly friends could calm down enough to tell them why there were suddenly there, and not at peace in the afterlife. Sirius had tried to get James to tell him what was beyond, but neither of them would or _could_ talk about it.

The story that had followed wasn't as funny though, even though both of the remaining Marauders wished it had been.

They had been told of Harry's life at the Dursley's, the demon possession, his rescue, and then of his new family. James had apologized profusely for the later, more upset than anyone else that his son couldn't stay with his godfather. Lily had explained though, because it was always her doing the explaining, that Harry would have a better life because of it. He wouldn't be hounded by the press as he grew up and discovered himself, and girls, boys -Lily had corrected, hobbies, his career path. He would also get the necessary training.

No one could fault Auror training, but Lily had insisted that this route -this Hunter lifestyle would be much better for him in the long run. He would learn how to take care of himself and others, both legally and illegally, magical and muggle, and he wouldn't have to mess around with all of the paperwork. Finally, they told Sirius and Remus that Harry would also get Mage training that he wouldn't be able to receive if he stayed at Hogwarts.

The last had floored both the godfather and the godfathers booty-call. They could have stayed in a shocked silence for a good ten minutes, at least, but Lily said they were in a hurry. She did give James enough uninterrupted time to explain that they had pranked a Reaper and that she would be onto them soon. Both ghosts expressed their regrets for not having enough time to deal with the ministry, to clear Sirius' infamous, pun inspiring name.

Sirius' sluggish voice had knocked him out of his thoughts, "Remy?" When Remus grunted his response the more immature of the two continued, "I'm cold."

"Siri, you're on top. You get the blankets," and it took a full minute for Sirius to do just that.

"Remy?" came Sirius' voice a minute later, after the covers had been settled over them both and Remus turned on his side so that Sirius could cuddle behind him. When Remus hummed in question he continued, "Do you think Harry's happy with his new home?"

It was a serious (no pun intended) question that had been on both of their minds since Lily and James had visited them nearly a week before. Neither of them wanted to ask, because they didn't want to admit that Harry was gone and not likely to return for many years. They didn't want to admit that he'd found a new home, one that would provide and care of him like neither Marauder could.

"Yeah," Remus said finally, "otherwise he would be back by now."

"You have a point there," Sirius chucked a bit, "and Lily and James didn't seem worried at all."

"That's also true," the werewolf added.

"Remy? Did you know that Harry was a Mage?"

This question prompted more serious thought, and Remus had to pull away from the temptation of sleep to think it over. "I suppose I knew it instinctively," he said finally, "but I should have been aware a lot sooner. The twins did give Harry the map, in return for the brand name they've been using. Weasley Wizard Weezes, who would have guessed? Then the map went to me, along with a clue that Peter was alive. In return I made him listen to you. Then you gave Mister Weasley his owl, but I'm not aware of anything he could have given Harry."

"I wonder if Dumbledore knows?" Sirius contemplated out loud.

"Probably not," Remus explained, "Harry has woven a web of relationships. Merlin also cast a web of relationships, but over far more people. In the end, when he disappeared, no one could say where or why he was gone. They just felt a little loss, or so the written accounts have gone. I doubt any of the student's could explain why they reacted the way they did. The web also binds them, and they won't be able to tell anyone about it until Harry receives all of his marks."

"Marks?" Sirius asked.

Remus turned over so he could look at his partner while they talked, "he'll have a physical manifestation of his status as a Mage somewhere on his person. I've read that Merlin's was in the center of his chest and extended across both arms. Sort of like your tattoos," Remus said as he ran nimble fingers over Sirius' chest.

"I wonder where Harry's is," Sirius said thoughtfully, but Remus didn't reply. They both began nodding off soon after.

* * *

**To Those Who Just Read: **

This was a filler chapter, there's no doubt about that. I was also going to add an additional bonus, but I'll save it for the next chapter.

Since I've started writing this, two or three days ago, I've lost the Lent game. I feel no shame of brining a religious practice down to the level that I have.

My brother also gave in, but I must say though, my mom is lasting a lot longer than I thought she would.

My beta reader admits that she's lazy, and I will be accepting applications….whenever.

It's too early to be writing one of these end notes! I'll just put in any addition thoughts at the top of the next chapter.

**I like quotes and reviews (that consist of more than one word and a smiley face!)**

**Thank you,**

**Alzipher **


	9. Chapter 9

**To the Masses:** You reviewers sure know how to make a gal feel special, with all of those pretty reviews.

For the people that didn't catch this earlier, and I should probably post this at the beginning of every chapter:

Non-Cannon Ages

Harry/Harley: Fourteen (Birthday is July 31st)  
Sam: Nineteen (Birthday is May 2nd)  
Dean: Twenty-two (Birthday is January 24th)  
John and Bobby: Prehistoric (I didn't bother looking it up)

**Warnings:** AU, Slash, mentions of abuse, mentions of sexual abuse, -inhales-, Manipulative Dumbledore, choppy concepts, awkward sentence structures, Cunning Harry, inspires more questions and answers, underage drinking, underage smoking, cradle robbing, other illegal things, cross-dressing, erratic updates, homophones, at this point I'm just adding crap, and more to be added in later chapters.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter or Supernatural. I make no profit from fan fiction. I still wish I owned some goblins…

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

_A good deed is never lost. He who sows courtesy, reaps friendship; he who plants kindness, gathers love; pleasure bestowed on a grateful mind was never sterile, but generally gratitude begets reward.~ St. Basil_

Harley Singer sat in an uncomfortable hospital chair, just staring at the young girl who slept before him. He hadn't planned on visiting her. In fact, he hadn't planned on being in a hospital at all, but Bobby had all but ordered it. Logically he knew he needed to update his non-magical medical records, he needed the immunizations to start school, and he probably needed to have all of his past injuries checked just to make sure they healed right. Those reasons didn't keep him from hating hospitals any less.

As soon as Bobby and he had stepped into the building, that same morning, Harley had seized up. He hated the smell of sick and dying people underneath the stench of cleaning products. He hated the atmosphere, it felt like a fake smile plastered over too much pain. Most of all though, he hated being poked and prodded and just knowing that someone else was going to see just how messed up he was on the inside. When he was younger he had no fear that someone would take one look at his bones or his skin and know just how messed up his home life was, because his neglectful family never took him to the doctors. It would have been just a waste of money.

He remembered his first visit to the infirmary at Hogwarts, and it hadn't gone all that well. He had been nearly too nervous to speak and too uncomfortable with Madame Pomfrey's abrasive personality. She knew, her surmised, not even before first year let out, the extent of his relatives 'care.' When she released him he would fret for days afterwards, just waiting for the other shoe to drop, and some reveal-all article in the newspaper. Harley had a feeling his first visit to a muggle facility would be very similar.

He'd been at least half right. Dr. Berkowitz was much more gentler than Madame Pomfrey, but he had a bad habit of making 'humms' and 'huh,'s while he read Harley's file. The habit caused not only himself, but Bobby as well to question the doctor about what he was thinking every few minutes. When Berkowitz offered no answers Harley would huff and Bobby would glare at the back of the man's balding head.

They were forced to wait nearly an hour as the doctor skimmed his records and made notations, and in that time both he and Bobby had become too irritable for words. Harley was ready to snap just as soon as Dr. Berkowitz turned to ask him his first question, which was, unfortunately for Harley, "When was your last physical?"

Bobby had been shocked out of his own frustration and turned to look at his adopted son in amusement. The answer, of course, was 'never,' and Bobby stood and left the room after saying "I'll just let you get to it," and snickered all the way to the waiting room. Only half an hour later, when he caught sight of his ward, the first thing out of his mouth was, "did he have cold hands?"

Harley immediately crossed his arms over Dean's old Led Zepplin shirt and glared. Of course it didn't look much like I glare, but more like a chipmunk with too much air in his cheeks. Bobby only chuckled at his response before he turned and acknowledged Dr. Berkowitz.

They traveled back to his office before the physician began to talk about anything relevant to their visit, which both Singers were grateful for. "First of all, I would like to know how long you've been living together."

Harley didn't even bother glancing at Bobby, because he had anticipating the question and a certain level of hostility when the doctor would inevitably find signs of his life at the Durlsey's. "A little over a week," he said calmly and thought back to the story they had agreed on, "my mother died when after I was born and left me with her sister's family. My aunt learned about my father through an old journal, so she found a guy who worked for cheap. At least cheaper than a passport and plane ticket would be, and..."

Dr. Berkowitz nodded in understanding, "You don't often hear about illegal immigrants from Britain, but it does happen. So he was paid by your aunt to kidnap you and bring you here? Did he do that do your arm?" he nodded his head towards Harley's injured arm.

"The bastard," Harley hissed. He still remembered Tannin as clear as day, despite the other men in the house who tried to calm his nightmares without resulting to, what the Winchester's called, a 'chick flick' moment.

That, apparently, was the go-ahead for the doctor to launch into a very long list of things that he found wrong with the young man. The most alarming, but not really surprising, deduction was about his malnutrition. They had to make an appointment with a nutritionist to figure out the best diet to help him grow as much as he could after so many years of neglect. There second most prudent injury was an old break in his arm that had been set incorrectly and when Dr. Berkowitz had pressed into the skin he could feel an obvious indentation. He was worried that if they didn't set the bone correctly then it would give him problems later in life. Harley didn't like the idea of breaking his arm all over again just to have to wear a cast for however many months. He made a face as he recalled Lockheart and his bone vanishing charm from his second year and absently rubbed his right arm, there were obviously no problems with those bones as they were a little over two years old.

The list went on, and Dr. Berkowitz talked nearly nonstop; explained problems and possible treatments before allowing Bobby and Harley to make a decision on which course of action to take. One thing both men agreed on was that it was better to fix his arm quickly, and get the problem over with, and he could spend his time in the cast gaining healthy weight, and catching up on his education.

"Well, I don't like it," Harley had protested, crossing both of his arms over his t-shirt.

Both men ignored him, and continued to discuss times and appointments. Dr. Berkowitz had a lot of connections, apparently, and they could fit in several more appointments that day. Fortunately that meant they wouldn't have to come back another day. Unfortunately for Harley that meant his arm would be in a cast, which would make cooking and cleaning more difficult. He would never say it aloud, but he knew he would be a little disappointed if he couldn't make that roast and an apple pie the day the Winchesters were to return.

"So the next appointment is in an hour and a half," Berkowitz interrupted, "I think they're severing lunch soon, and there's also a nice pub just across the street that serves good food."

"Pub grub?" Harley asked with a hint of excitement, earning an amused look from both older men. To him though, the phrase meant bangers and mash, an easy meal that never failed to fill his stomach. To American's that meant burgers and fries.

"I don't think that mean's the same thing here, kid," Bobby said a little reluctantly, placing a large hand on Harley's head and rubbed. When he pulled his hand away Harley's immediately reached up in an effort to sort out his brittle rat's nest. "Is that were you want to go for lunch?" he asked a moment later.

Harley thought for a moment before answering honestly, "no, thank you. There's something I would like to do before we leave today, if that's alright?"

Bobby looked confused but nodded anyway, while wondering what the child was thinking of. He could take an educated guess though, and connected the dots just as fast as the next man. He knew that Harley wanted to see that Vandercauf girl, and he wasn't so sure it was a good idea, but that's what the kid felt like he had to do. If there was one thing a senior hunter could teach his student it was to always trust that instinct, and it would save his life at least once.

"Thank you," Harley said cheerfully. His smile brightened the sterile room, and Bobby wasn't sure if it was the child's natural charisma or if it was by magic, but it sure as hell was worth it.

An hour after the first appointment ended Bobby sat in a waiting room, counting down the minutes until he had to drag Harley away from the sleeping girl and down three floors, to get his x-rays done. While he waited he evaluated the new chapter of his life, for the hundredth time since little Harry Potter came into his life. He hadn't come to regret their situation, and he was sure that he never would. It was nice to have company in his big lonely house, and he hadn't realized just how alone he felt since the Winchester children were old enough to travel constantly.

He never though he'd have his own snot-gobbler though, not since his beautiful wife died. He never once though about going out and remarrying, knocking some gal up for the hell of it, or adoption. It just didn't seem right to bring innocent people into such a dangerous life style, especially a child. Then, while he was fretting over the rift between John and his youngest son, the child just showed up. He was already waist deep in the kind of trouble reserved for really, really shitty days. The kids parents even showed up from the land of the dead to tell him to take care of their baby, and not to worry about ruining him because his life had already been more messed up than any non-magical person could imagine.

Their unique circumstances didn't mean he was any less freaked out though, because he was possibly even more worried than normal parents. He had a laundry list of things he needed and wanted to do for his child, and at the very top was 'training.' Harley couldn't just have any normal education, not even for a hunter. He needed to learn about all the regular things like malevolent spirits, how to salt and burn, and the basic nasties that were native to America. Then he needed to find someone to train him in the ways of magic, which would prove to be incredibly difficult because he didn't even know there was such a thing as good magic. The hardest thing of all though, was teaching Harley how to handle pain, and helping him understand that not every bad thing that happens in his life is actually his fault.

Dean would help with that whether he realized it or not, Bobby though with much amusement. They would probably end up counting on each other a great deal, in the end. He and John had already talked about the instant dynamic between the two. It seemed that Dean's immaturity and Harley's world weariness evened the other out, which had both men in awe before the end of the second day. Usually, and they also acknowledged to each other in a late night conversation, it took Dean a while to drop his flirtations and actually get to know a person. Harley was also the type of person to guard his secrets like dragon's gold, but they seemed to open up around each other. Relationships like that took years to form, and Bobby and John had the good fortune of seeing it happen over a single meal.

He wondered how their relationship would continue to develop over time. Really there were only to options; they would either become brothers or lovers. Bobby wasn't sure about the later, but not because of any preconceived notion that two men should not be together. In their business you took love where you could find it, and trust was always considered a bonus. What the senior Singer was worried about was that family trait that the ghost of James Potter had ranted and raved about. He had fretted, over the past week, the possibility of poor Harley Singer, his new child, getting knocked up at a young age because boys (normal ones, at least) didn't have to worry about such things.

Bobby's thoughts were interrupted as footsteps neared him, and he looked up to see the object of his thoughts. He had nearly pissed his pants, he had been laughing to hard, when Dean grudgingly handed over one of his favorite t-shirts. The kid apparently took bets pretty serious, and had demanded payment the night before the Winchesters had to leave on their latest hunt. Dean had complained, of course, but the poorly concealed smirk had given away his true feelings. Harley had chosen to wear the shirt to the hospital, probably as some unconscious attempt to comfort himself, with some skinny black jeans and the leather-looking jacket. In short, he looked rather feminine, and a lot like jail-bait.

He'd made his decision rather suddenly, and vowed that he wouldn't let some ignorant bag of hormones impregnate his boy-daughter. If that meant brining out the big guns, then so be it.

"How'd it go?" he asked with genuine curiosity and concern. Harley's eyes were just a little red around the edges, and he couldn't help but be a little worried.

"Rather well," Harley admitted with a sad smile, "I'm sure she'll be alright, after time." They both would, Harley thought happily. He really did believe it, because the first step was realizing there was a problem and admitting it, and they both briefly shared a mutual hardship of their childhood. They had both vowed that they would heal at their own pace but not to let it hold them back, a balance that would probably be hard to achieve. Just before he left, Harley had given her a small bracelet that he had struggled to craft in the past two days. He had carved and woven several of his healing stones, making little charms out of aventurine, moss agate, and selenite, and using a black tether to hold them all together. The combination of all three meant healing, protection, and harmony.

In return Chloe had given him a simple crucifix made of silver, that hung on an unusual looking chain. She had explained that her grandmother had given it to her for her holy communion, but she no longer felt as if she needed it. Instead she had the bracelet, as rough as it looked, and she had said "it feels right, like I was meant to have it," and she was right. He had crafted it only for her, but it really wasn't the first time he'd gone out of his way to do or make something for someone he hardly knew.

"You ready to get pictures taken of your bones?" Bobby asked good naturedly, drawing Harley out of his thoughts.

"Eh," the young man groaned, "why do you enjoy my suffering so?"

**Bonus (for taking so long to update and reply to reviews and messages. I really am sorry.)**

Children are so often upset with their parents that it seems routine, rather than serious. Ron Weasley was more annoyed by that than anything else, it seemed. It wasn't just the youngest son though, his sister and three of his brothers were equally as annoyed.

The five of them, joined by Neville Longbottom and Hermione Granger, were hulled up in Buckbeaks room and they were plotting. At least they were attempting to, but the exceedingly high level of anger and frustration was preventing them from getting much done. Instead, the six of them were content with just ranting. If they planned on being technical; only six of them were ranting, as Fred and George seemed to have become one and were talking in exact tandem instead of taking turns.

The Twins were probably the least forgiving out of them all, because they were older, and they felt that the attention should be focused on their younger siblings. They were used to negative attention and the harping of adults, but it wasn't a joking matter -for once. They had even said as much, but no one had put much stock in their words.

Percy and Ginny weren't really mad, so much as they were expecting all of the nagging and disbelief. Percy was taking it much better than everyone though, because he had a flat and a job he could run off to. Ginny was also affected less than her brothers because she was the only girl in a family of boys. All she had to do was turn on the water works and start shrieking about her feelings and how much she missed Harry and every male in the immediate area would back of, and her mother would instantly feel sorry for her 'love-struck,' daughter.

Neville's Grandmother, Augusta Longbottom, was proud of her grandson for his loyalty to his friend. She didn't say as much, and continued to level everyone with a disapproving glare, but Neville insisted she was being nice and staying out. That didn't keep the other adults from digging their claws into him though, and he had probably suffered the most, because he wasn't used to Mrs. Weasley's enraged squealing.

Hermione's parents were disappointed, and when they had first said as much the young woman had entered a nearly catatonic state. Ron had later told her that they wouldn't feel that way if they really knew what was going on, and that seemed to break the tension. Hermione had cried on his shoulder for a little while, she had ranted afterward, and when she was done with that she returned to her normal, bookish self. Hermione considered her new job to be morally supporting the Weasley's and Neville as best as she could, and it made things a little easier.

Ron wasn't sure how he was doing though. He wished that at the end of the day he could step out of his body and analyze himself, but it wasn't possible. He thought he was doing a good job though, because he still had hope.

He didn't know what was going on with his best friend or where he had gone, no one did, with the exception of Harry. Ron was smart enough to realize though, that he rarely knew what was going on with his best friend. He did get the basics though, as unusual as they were. He knew the widely reported things like Harry's love for flying, his favorite desert, and his favorite subject. He also knew things that only people close to Harry were privy to, like his bad habit of reading in bed until all hours of the morning, or that he kept semi-permanent silencing spells on his bed curtains.

"Hey," he said suddenly, interrupting Ginny as she was retelling how their mother tried to corner her in the kitchen. The other's stopped and stared at him expectantly, because he had spent the last hour staring at a chess board while not saying a thing. "What are we going to do about firsties this year, without Harry there to calm them all down?"

"Bloody hell," Fred and George said in time, "You're right," one continued, while the other spoke up next, "he usually makes a point of saying goodnight to every single one of the little buggers."

"I wonder why," Percy said calmly as he contemplated just one of Harry's many oddities.

"We all do," Ginny said heatedly, remembering her own first year when Harry had hugged her quickly before pushing her towards the girls dormitory.

Ron and Neville exchanged a meaningful look, that the others missed, as Hermione began to speak up. "That's not the only thing that he does that we usually take for granted though, is it?" When she was met with six confused stares she huffed and continued in her lecturing tone, "Think about it, what else does Harry do every day or every year that we write off as normal, but is actually very important?"

"Well," Neville said softly, "he helps out the younger years when they're learning to fly." Harry had actually been the one to teach him how to fly after his accident in first year, because Madame Hooch didn't have the time. He'd continued the theme every year when the new students showed a fear or other problem on brooms.

"He bakes sugar cookies on Christmas Eve," Ginny supplied.

"No way," Fred and George interrupted. The both leaned forward with accusing eyes, "the ones shaped like little stars?" Ginny nodded once, not at all liking her personal space being violated by the devious twins, "and the yellow frosting?" The received another nod, "Harry makes those?" When their little sister nodded for a third time they drew back and horror, both of them shrieked in horror, "What are we going to do without Harry?!" Just as suddenly as they began to scream they stood, and both of them bolted to the door and down the stairs, ignoring the caterwauling of Wilburga Black's portrait.

"That's a little extreme," Percy fretted, but stood and began to follow because there was no force of nature that would keep him from witnessing the Twins being punished.

"Not for them," Ron said pensively, but he was just as disturbed. He didn't know his friend was responsible for those cookies, and he wondered if the smaller boy knew just how much the Gryffindors appreciated them. Student's quickly learned to look forward to the day the yellow stars appeared on plates all around the common room. Ron was an avid consumer of the same treat, but he wasn't about to do anything to draw attention to himself and bring the adults on him again.

Never the less, they all made their way downstairs to see what the Twins were up to. They all kept quiet and Ron retreated back into his thoughts, making a mental list of all of the things about Harry that they took for granted. "I wonder if he made cookies for all of the houses?" he mumbled to himself, but Neville heard and nodded in agreement.

When they reached the bottom flat Sirius and Remus were holding the curtains in front of the shrieking portrait shut as Molly Weasley scolded her sons in a similar pitch. Poor Remus looked in pain, and muttered something about hacking his own ears off and donating them to someone willing to listen to women trying to imitate nails across a chalkboard. Ron would have to follow his lead if his mother didn't stop soon.

"But Mum!" the Twins interrupted together, but they didn't wait for their mother to stop, because the chances of that happening were slim to none, "we have to find Harry!"

"Now you listen to reason?!" Molly demanded, her hands were on her hips and her expression clearly said 'I told you so.'

"What's changed your mind all of the sudden?" a voice from inside of the dinning room asked. They had interrupted an 'important' Order meeting, but the children knew that all they were doing was bemoaning their lost savior and wondering where he went. Molly moved out of the way and the children filed in after her, each of them staring at the real Mad-Eye Moody, who had snapped at the Twins.

"If we don't get Harry back we won't get his special Christmas Eve cookies!" Fred shouted in despair. The Majority of the adults in the room rolled their eyes at the twins immaturity.

"The one's shaped like stars?" Sirius spoke up, looking between Fred and George. Ron glanced around the room and saw a few other people who's interest suddenly peaked. All of the teachers stared intently, waiting for an answer, including Professor Snape. Tom, the keeper of the Leaky Cauldron was another, and a few other shop owners from Diagon Alley. Ron realized they were the few people to treat Harry decently, in the time before their third year, when Harry had run away from his relatives. "With the yellow frosting?" Sirius continuing, and the Twins only nodded. "You mean Harry makes those?" The Twins nodded for a third time and a room full of mature adults and a hand full of children watched as Sirius Black, convicted murderer of fifteen people, most wanted man in the UK, turned and jumped into the arms of Remus Lupin and began to make loud wailing noises.

"I didn't know Harry made those," Florean, the man who owned Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour. He looked thoughtful and a little sad. Maybe he didn't realize it was Harry who sent them, Ron guessed, and why would he when his two best friends didn't even know.

"Wait," Ron said, just as suddenly as he'd spoken earlier that day, "how did you know it was Harry who makes them?" he asked his little sister.

Ginny crossed her arms and looked away, first at the ceiling and then at the floor. Sirius had even stopped his dramatics to hear the answer. "I just found out last Christmas," Ginny admitted, hating that the was revealing something so personal to a room full of people who didn't have a right to know. Ron suddenly regretted blurting his question out like that, but now they had to reveal a little more about their friend. "he, and the other Champions had left early to go to the kitchens. I walked in and they were all there, just frosting cookies." She paused to rub the back of her neck nervously, "they let me help a little, but they were almost done. None of them wanted to tell anyone, because people would freak out. It was a competition after all, the masses would have jumped down their necks if they thought they were conspiring together or something. Not to mention that Skeeter woman."

The moral of the children dropped very suddenly at the mention of that woman's name. She had made Harry's life a living hell that year, and she was only making things worse since he disappeared. She had theorized that Harry ran off to the Philippines with a French girl because of his 'fear of success,' and 'pathological need for attention.' Her flamboyant lies had sparked the work reactions from people, and those mindless drones made Harry regret getting up in the morning.

Hermione reacted the worst and stormed out of the room, but no one followed her. Ron knew where she was going, it didn't take a genius to figure it out. She had gone to write a very angry letter to the Skeeter woman, probably full of veiled threats of catching her in her animangus form and keeping her captive for the rest of her unnaturally long, buggy life. Not many people would realize just how cruel the muggle-born witch was being, but Ron wasn't about to tell them, and neither were Neville or Ginny.

Movement from his right suddenly caught his attention and Ron turned to see Molly had wrapped the twins in a big hug, "don't worry dearies, if we can't get Harry back by Christmas I'll make them for you. Ginny dear, do you remember the recipe?" Ron could only roll his eyes, as subtly as possible, at his mother's abrupt change in attitude. There were some days when here mood swings would barely register and other days when they were so abrupt and fierce that they threatened to bring the roof down on their heads.

Ginny snorted in answer, "have you ever seen him cook, or watched him make a successful potion?" Ron grinned at his sisters reply and he turned to share another look with Neville. Of course they had seen Harry work in one of his many natural elements, the kitchen, but they weren't sure who else knew that about their delicate looking friend.

Fred and George also started to chuckle, and Ron caught site of Percy trying to hide a smile. "If he ever learns now to properly use a measuring cup, I'll eat a pound of Devils Snare," Neville added, warranting a round of giggles from his peers.

"It's always 'about one hand full of flower for every two heaping table spoons of sugar," Ginny mocked.

"Oh, 'about this much salt, if you feel like it, but not a lot or I'll ruin the potatoes," Ron added, remembering the time that Harry had dragged him to the kitchens, only so he could relieve some of his stress by cooking, cleaning, and generally freaking out the House-elves. Dobby had been underfoot the entire time, but Harry treated the little elf respectfully and they discussed various recipes.

"Exact measurements are Harry's enemy," The Twins remarked. They'd also had the great privilege of watching Harry brew a potion. At the very beginning they had screamed and hidden behind a desk, waiting for the explosion, because when Harry worked it always looked like he was just throwing in random things. "It's frightening to watch," one twin continued, and the others nodded.

"And what would Harry think about you mocking him?" Florean Fortescue's voice was a little chiding, but he wasn't over stepping his bounds and presuming himself their guardian by out right scolding them.

Ron's grin only widened, "He would 'huff huff puff,' and go off to do whatever it is he does in his free time." Immediately Fred and George did their impression of Harry by huffing, puffing out their cheeks, and crossing their arms. His stomach decided to save him from the revealing conversation suddenly, by growling loudly, and his siblings chimed, 'Dinner time.'

"Oh, you're right," Molly turned to address the members of the order, "who would like to stay for dinner?"

The Order meeting broke up after that, and only those who were staying at the house, and a couple of other's stayed for the evening meal. They all gathered around the table, the children at one end and the members of the Order at the other. Ron noticed that Snape had also lingered behind before their professor took a seat somewhere in the middle of the able, avidly ignoring all of the inappropriate remarks from Sirius. Florean Fortescue and Tom sat with each other, but Ron saw absolutely no reason why they lingered for dinner when they had their own establishments to take care of.

"You're still here to talk about Harry, aren't you?" Hermione, who had rejoined the room a minute prior, asked. Ron noticed that she was considerably calmer after threatening Rita Skeeter with enslavement and bodily harm, and was a little scared of his bookish friend for that.

"You caught us," Tom replied, smiling his normal toothless smile. His old eyes looked sad though, gazing at the group of children in hope. Ron had seen that expression before, when Sirius and Remus had asked them about Harry the first few nights. He knew what it meant; they were looking for hope. They just wanted to know that their child, the delicate looking Harry Potter wasn't lost or dead.

"You don't know him like we do," Ron suddenly said. The adults that were at the table; his father, Sirius and Remus, their grouchy Potions Master, and the two shop owners looked at him as if they were insulted. Ron had to admit, it was a rather degrading remark, and was said with a little too much anger.

"Ronald Weasley," Hermione snapped, and he had to look between her frustrated expression and the downtrodden looks of his elders.

"It's true," he tried to defend himself, "they don't see what he does for the people around him. Bloody hell, we didn't even see it until he was gone. They weren't there either, to see that Harry can take care of himself. We have."

"He is right, Hermione," Neville said cautiously, "remember when the Twins and Lee Jordan ambushed him in the common room last year?"

"That's right," The Twins chorused. "Three six years against an ickle fourth year and we lost," one continued. "Terribly," the second added. It went without saying that they remembered the effects of several obscure charms, the worst of which was a horse taming charm that felt like a royal spanking. "And he took on a dragon," they both finished.

"He's faced Dementors," Percy recalled, putting in his own two cents for the hell of it.

"He killed the Basilisk in the chamber, with a sword," Neville added to the list.

"He helps the other students every Tuesday and Thursday with O.W.L and N.E.W.T's studies," Hermione was recalling the first time she caught Harry sitting in front of a group of fifth years, listening as he quizzed them all from a study guide and prompted a group discussion to help his fellow students comprehension. She had kept her presence hidden for a couple of more weeks, watching as he continued to mediate between students with a greater knowledge than his, she and Harry had only been twelve at the time. "That's just another thing we took for granted, isn't it?" she asked as she looked for Ron for an answer.

"Yeah," he sighed, "Plus he offered to help Hagrid every Saturday evening, with whatever needs to be done. I can do that, I think." He tried to think back and remember anything Harry had ever said about helping their half-giant friend, but Harry was never a very open person. Usually he had to ask very pointed questions, and if he didn't receive an incredibly evasive answer then the response was vague.

"I can take over the flying lessons," Ginny offered, worrying her bottom lip with her thumb nail. She was probably the best person for that job, Ron thought about offering, but he didn't have the patience required to help first and second years with fear of flying or the little problems they had that were hard to pin down.

"We'll tuck in first years," the Twins sang aloud, and immediately heads snapped towards them.

"No," the other children shouted back, "most definitely not you two trouble makers," Hermione added.

"I can do that," Neville volunteered, "at least until they get over their homesickness." A silence reigned over the little group as they thought to themselves and ignored all of their elders. "What are we going to do about Potions Roulette?"

Hermione instantly began coughing while trying to disguise a nod to the other end of the table. Seven heads simultaneously turned to look at the blank stare of their Potions Master. "Oops," Neville offered.

"Pray tell what Mister Longbottom meant by Potions Roulette," Severus ground out. The other adults, all mature except in the case of Sirius Black, also looked on with curiosity.

Ron gulped audibly while his brain scrambled for a quick answer that would be the least likely to get them all in trouble. Up until that careless slipup, Potions Roulette had been one of the best kept secrets in Gryffindor House. It was Harry's idea, of course, and he'd shared it with many of the other students. At first it had just been their year, but the Twins soon saw the merit in the game, Percy was convinced it was academic and good practice, and Ginny had thought it sounded like great fun. To date all of the years played the game, with the exception of first years who had to be taught, and normally started playing in their second year.

"Uh, nothing," Percy offered. Ron and the Twins groaned in unison, knowing it was the worst possible answer to give. Ginny had kicked her older brother in his shins while Hermione and Neville buried their heads in their hands.

"It's this game we play," Ron explained, thinking maybe this was one of those cases were honesty was the best policy. If he was wrong, then he would just pray for a quick and painless death. "Everyone get's a cauldron, obviously, and we all start our potion as we normally could. After the first ten minutes all of the cauldrons magically shuffle, and you get someone else's potion."

"The object of the game," Percy interrupted, trying to put his educational spin on things, "is to identify which stage it is in brewing and continue the project accordingly. The cauldron's continue to magically shuffle in random intervals. The most common problem is accidentally adding more or less ingredients than needed when the potion shuffles at an inconvenient time, and then it's up to the person who receives it to figure out and correct the problems accordingly."

"It was Harry's idea," the Twins added. If they were lucky then the rage of the Potions Master would concentrate on someone who had already escaped punishment.

"And when you're about to notice we just explode one," Ginny offered cheekily while grinning. Neville's arms collapsed and he continued to hide his face in the crook of his arm, obviously he wasn't very good at the game.

"You imbeciles," Snape growled, "do you have any idea how dangerous that is?" He was glaring at them all as if they were the incarnation of James Potter and the vomit flavored jelly bean mixed into one.

"Of course," Hermione huffed, offended that someone dare tell her that she didn't know something. "That's why we all study extra notes the night before, and we prepare our potion kits with the extra ingredients we might need to overcome common problems."

"Who wins the most?" Florean Fortescue asked. His expression was that of utter awe at the gall the children had to do something that was obviously against the rules, and to continue to do so over the years while learning more than the common student.

Ron smirked at the approval of the elder man, even though he didn't know the bloke or even care much for him.

"Actually," Hermione continued, "we all lose pretty evenly. We still haven't figured out a way to keep some of the Slytherins from tossing in random ingredients. Baring actual wards, but those would take to long to draw and set. It wouldn't be a problem if they threw in something relevant to the potion, but they usually bring the most random things."

"I got rat droppings in one of my potions before," Neville said offhandedly, earning god smacked looks from the Order Members at is casual dismissal.

"Oh yeah," the twins challenged, "Angelina once got an entire ounce of human blood poured into one of hers."

"That's disgusting," Ron shouted, "and I thought tin full of dried bogeys was bad."

"You're right," Ginny grimaced at the thought of pile of crusty snot toppling into a boiling cauldron was bad, "dried bogeys is really bad."

"It's a wonder more potions don't explode," Remus said softly even though his words cut Severus to the bone, and they all knew it.

"Then tell me, why does Longbottom blow something up nearly every single class?" Snape growled.

Ron was careful to anylze the Potions Master without meeting his eyes and thought that Snape didn't seem as mad as they thought he would be. Rather, he seemed upset that he didn't realize what was going on sooner, and even more so at the Gryffindors causal mention of the Slytherin's antics.

"Harry would probably know," Neville answered, "there's not a lot that get's past him."

"That's right," Ron spoke up again, "maybe it's in one of his journals." His suggestion inspired a bit of hope in their clumsy friend, and in the other's as well. Harry's friends, or anyone he really spent time around him, knew that he always had a journal for something. Ron used to think he was keeping a diary, but he once read over the shorter boys shoulder, trying to catch a peek. What he read was far from girly, in fact it was research on Sanginarians and Vampires, a topic they hadn't even begun to cover in any of their classes. Since then he had kept a closer eye on things and noticed different notebooks for different days of the week and different times of the day. He once asked Harry why he wrote everything down, and the younger boy had said, 'For when there's a time when other's need this information, but don't know where to look first.'

"Knowing Harry, he probably started looking for answers the moment he realized there was a pattern," Hermione's voice sounded more stressed.

"Knowing Harry," one of the Twins said, "he probably realized there was a pattern the first week of school," the other continued.

"So where does he keep his journals?" Ron's dad asked, looking on with a look that he rarely showed to anything that didn't have to do with muggle inventions.

"In his trunk," Neville said and then sighed, "which is like a death trap to anyone but Harry."

The Twins noticeably flinched, "it's worse than a death trap," one tried to explain, "it tried to eat my arm," the other said shrilly.

"He did warn you," Hermione chided, but her heart wasn't really in it. Ron thought the look on her face said she was trying to find a solution, like in the years before, right before she hauled him and Harry off to the library. Not that Harry ever put an effort into his protests.

"He said 'I wouldn't do that if I were you,' and let's face it Hermione, that would never sway those two," Ginny said, her grin still stretched across her lips, "now, what he should have said is, 'Don't you dare, or it'll try and kill you.' That would have been a more accurate warning."

"So jus' think like Harry," Tom the Inn Keeper suggested, "what would be like 'im to guard 'is things?"

The other's at the table humored him and looked straight ahead. Ron was the first to break, "I might get a brain injury if I try any harder," he said in his defense. "Why don't we just write him a letter?"

"And get it to him how, genius?" his little sister asked, "the Order's already tried that. Three of the owls still haven't come back." She was speaking of the ten separate owls that Dumbledore had sent out in an effort to find the boy, but seven of them came back tired and nearly dead without delivering the letter, and the other three were still missing, like she said. Ron still maintained that the three that were still missing just saw it as an opportunity to stay away from his owl, Pig, and weren't ready to face the hyper little beast so soon.

"Why don't send it through the Goblins?" Ron pushed, "They have to magically know where he is at all times, they would never let the keeper of an account as big as his just disappear."

"Ron's right," Arthur spoke again, "they can't tell us where he is, but for a price they'll send a letter to him for us."

"Great," Sirius clapped his hands happily, excited that he would get to keep in contact with his godson. "No one tell Dumbledore," he added, his face suddenly looked comically threatening, but no one said anything against him. None of the men around him disagreed, even though Snape looked like he was about to protest for a moment. There was just something about their esteemed leader that didn't set well with any of them.

"We should send him his things," Neville added, "at least what we could find."

"What do you mean?" Remus was burning with curiosity, just like his mate, because what little Ron and them had talked about made it seem like no one really knew Harry at all.

"We mean; It's Harry, who the hell really knows," Ron clarified, "we've known him for four years, and I still feel like we haven't a single bloody clue."

* * *

**To Those Who Just Read:** (Not for those who just skip ahead and read all of my great A/N's)…(that was sarcasm).

I am really sorry for taking so long to update. I had….Okay, I didn't have anything really going on. I was just struck with a chronic case of I-Don't-Wanna.

I told myself I would stop writing everything in the really craptastic flashback way that I have been, but I lost. I think I'll start writing in episode format next chapter, with smaller bonus'. This last one just got out of hand. I also promised myself that I would stop writing at three in the morning, but here I am. It's nearly four a.m. now and there's no sign of me going to bed…Oh well.

Thank you for reading.

I like quotes and reviews,

Alzipher

P.S. Damn, I still haven't gotten to the goblins. Poop. -Al

**Notice:** To the people who reply to my reply of your review, I'm getting to those notes soon. After sleep though, because the third edit of the chapter lasted until four thirty. I'm tired.


	10. Chapter 10

**To The Masses:** I've been gone a long while and I really have no excuse. I guess I could say that real life slapped me in the face…yeah, that sounds nice and metaphorical. Sadly, what did get me to update the story was the chance to reply to flame. My policy in the face of such things has officially become 'Crucify!' followed by a rant about **purple dildos** and the stupidity of flamers. I'm not saying I'm the mature party in this matter either; I have way too much fun thinking of new and inappropriate ways of phrasing things.

The original review can be found in the log (under chapter four) and in my profile.

The one thing I _hate_ most about crusading reviewers is that they think their harshly worded missive will change my mind or that I'll feel properly chastised and change my ways. 'Cover it up,' you say? I have done no such thing; as soon as the idea worked its way into this story I started adding 'sexual abuse' as a warning (starting in chapter two). You actually rant as if rape and sexual abuse are mutually exclusive. I would like to ask you 'what the hell did you think I was talking about?' it certainly wasn't a casual brush across the butt. Overused? Yes, the naughty touch is pretty common in fanfiction as a way to inspire pity, but people who have actually gone through such things might find it as a way to vent their own anger and hurt feelings without revealing themselves. Pathetic you raved? That's not a word people should associate with nonconsensual sex, as it's offensive to men and women who aren't really pathetic at all.

If it hasn't occurred to you; some might actually find the word 'rape' inappropriate, like calling a dwarf a 'midget' only on a different meter of emotions. You actually might have succeeded in being insensitive to one out of every six women that pass through this story.

My Harry is old? Why, no he's not. He's hardly even fifteen in this story. I do see what you mean though, that my own version of Harry has been seen a thousand times before, and that makes me wonder if you really paid attention to the characterizations at all. You, dear flamer, were probably just waiting for the fluff. I can't even fathom that you were interested in this story for the actual plot, or you would have noticed that I mentioned the demon used Harry for sex and Petunia was a pedophile in chapter two.

I can't even be mad anymore, after I realized the last bit. Unless you don't count a demon riding someone's meat-suit into the willing or unwilling bodies of young women between South Dakota and Scottland as severe violation of one's person, in which I would only pretend to understand that oversight. Then in addition to wondering what the hell 'dhh' stands for, I question if you're even old enough to understand the complex twisting a personality can go through after being victimized. Maybe old enough but not intelligent enough, maybe in denial about the possibility such travesties occur so often.

Be clear person of lesser stories; I know what I'm doing. I might not be a pro and my grammar might suck booty, but when it comes to the choice of words there is hardly one pickier. If Harry hasn't said 'rape,' if such things haven't been acknowledged in the body of writing that is the actual story, there's a reason for it. I won't say what it is, because that would be spoiling, but I have plans and I won't ruin them for someone as bitchy as you.

See the bottom for possible contest inspired by 'dhh' (What does it mean? I must know! Do you have any suggestions for what it could mean?).

Non-Cannon Ages

Harry/Harley: Fourteen (Birthday is July 31st)  
Sam: Nineteen (Birthday is May 2nd)  
Dean: Twenty-two (Birthday is January 24th)  
John and Bobby: Prehistoric (I didn't bother looking it up)

**Warnings:** 'Sexual Abuse,' OOC, AU, OC's, Slash, mentions of abuse, , -inhales-, Manipulative Dumbledore, choppy concepts, awkward sentence structures, Cunning Harry, inspires more questions and answers, underage drinking, underage smoking, cradle robbing, other illegal things, cross-dressing, erratic updates, homophones, at this point I'm just adding crap, and more to be added in later chapters. Also note that flamers will be laughed at and mocked without mercy until I get bored.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter or Supernatural.

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

_'We are all generals. Whatever action we take may influence the course of civilization,' M. Scott Peck_

Harley woke up gasping for air, his magic swirling around him as he fought a non-existent demon. Tannin was dead, he kept telling himself as he watched the whirlwind of color fade into thin air. That stupid demon was dead and couldn't hurt him anymore, and he knew that rationally and thought it easier to blame the pain medication.

It had been a couple of days since his out-patient surgery, and his arm was confined to a clean white cast. At least it had been clean, Harley noted as he looked down at it. He could see something in the moonlight that streamed down through the open window. Casting a small light, which he had learned to cast with the tip of his index finger (after watching ET on Bobby's old telly), he surveyed his blemished cast. 'Will hunt ghosts for food,' signed by Dean in crude handwriting, which meant he must have returned.

Then something shuffled from his right and Harley moved his finger-slash-flashlight over to see the slumbering figure of his thoughts, sleeping on his stomach with one heavy arm draped over Harley's stomach. The younger boy could only roll his eyes, but smiled none-the-less. The past week had been boring without someone to insult while subtly educating, and even Bobby seemed to miss the company. They did find an acceptable replacement for the Winchester men though, and both dove into Harley's new books with childlike glee.

Bobby had already finished the book his mother recommended as well as a few others dedicated to ghosts or demons, in between reading he worked on cars and took calls from other hunters in need. Still, there had been a little something missing, but truth be told; Bobby hadn't eaten so well since his wife had passed. He looked a bit healthier for it as well, and the thoughtful dinners only added fuel to his increasing fondness for the child.

Harry tried to read as much as he could; starting with a book about the Kallikantzaroi. That was the name that Goblins preferred, and what they called each other. Harley figured that if they were going to be handling him money, as well as passing along secure mail, the least he could do was learn about their culture. After all, they had taken centuries to learn about his. He had been having a hard time getting through the book though, because of the pain medication the doctors prescribed for his healing arm.

He was drowsy more often than not, and his nightmares were increasing dramatically. Normally he would dream, he accepted that a long time ago. He often saw visions of the past, things of his infancy that he shouldn't be able to remember, and just like the past year –he sometimes saw things from Voldemort's point of view. Still, his dreams had been making less and less sense until they were nothing more than a black haze filled with the sensations he'd experienced while Tannin was inside of him.

The latest nightmare that had woken him was one of the worst; he hadn't even been aware that he was sleeping, and a voice had followed him as he walked the dark corridors of his own mind. It was his voice, but without the proper annunciation that he was used to, narrating everything that was happening on the outside. Harley didn't even want to lie back down to sleep, but one glance at the clock told him that it was far too early to get up.

Dean mumbled in his sleep and turned his head to face Harley, who extinguished the light in his finger as quickly as he could. "What's wrong?" he asked a moment later, his voice was even deeper when clouded with sleep. Harley noticed that one moss colored eye was cracked open as he peered up at Harley, waiting for a reply.

"I just had a nightmare, I'm sorry if I woke you," Harley whispered back, trying to relax back into the mattress and find some sort of comfortable position. He didn't think he could get back to sleep even if he tried, but he could pretend if that meant he wasn't disturbing anyone.

"Want to talk about it?" Dean asked casually while moving the arm that had been draped across Harley's thin torso to pull the blankets further up. When he was done he turned on his side to face the younger boy as if he expected Harley to take him up on his offer.

"No," he replied honestly, allowing Dean's body heat to wash over his aching muscles. Then maybe he shimmied a little closer, but neither would ever admit it, and Dean's hand returned to his stomach and urged him onto his side. So Harley lay on his side, facing the virtual stranger that irked him to no end, and Dean rubbed soothing circles across the child's back lulling them both into sleep.

The second time Harley woke that morning he found himself curled against Dean's side, wrapped securely in both blankets, with one pillow under his head and the other was wedged between his knees. His broken arm was held to his chest while the other was holding the blankets closed around him. When he moved his head he could see that he'd only been left a corner of the bed, and Dean was once again sleeping on his stomach and was hogging a vast majority of the mattress.

He didn't really want to, being too comfortable where he was, but eventually managed to turn to his other side and glance at the clock. He needed to get up soon, for coffee and to make breakfast, and his bank manager was due to visit around noon.

Dean moved only seconds after him, clearly used to sharing his bed, but with a completely different class of people. Tiredly he had rolled a little bit to one side just after Harley had moved, curling his arm in ward and dragging the warm body (and all of the blankets) to his chest as he continued slumbering.

"Winchester," Harley mumbled tiredly, "I need to get up." Even still he wouldn't admit he was rather comfortable, save for a small itching underneath his cast.

"No, sleep," Dean insisted in his tired haze, nuzzling the top of Harley's head.

Harley merely huffed, and it didn't occur to him at all to be embarrassed by the close contact, but that didn't stop his plotting. A full minute later, just enough time for Dean to sink back into sleep, he said clearly "Oh honey, what are you doing home so soon?"

Just as he suspected, that did spark a reaction. Dean rolled over and completely out of bed, his feet touched the ground and he began scanning the floor for his clothing. Only when he took a step towards his discarded pants did he wake fully and send a peeved glare towards Harley, who was grinning at him from his cocoon of warmth. "Ha ha," he said dryly, crawling back onto the bed and snatching the pillow from beneath Harley's head while pouting.

Just as soon as he did Harley rolled over, managed to extract himself from his shell, and climbed out of the bed. He stretched out his legs and looked down, realizing he was still dressed in the clothes he had picked the day before. That meant he must have fallen asleep in them, but he'd woken underneath covers, so someone must have been responsible for putting him in bed properly. He turned back to glance at Dean, meeting the peeved, one eyed gaze of the younger Winchester. "Thank you," he said with confidence, before he scrambled to collect his toiletries and a fresh pair of clothing.

Dean crawled back out of the bed a little over half an hour after, pulling on a pair of dirty jeans and his least bloodied shirt. He carried his clothes from the night before with him to toss out; they were far too ruined to keep. He briefly went over what happened the day before, going over every move and every mistake. He knew they would evaluate the latest hunt over breakfast, and he wanted to be ready for any questions his father or Bobby would have. Reluctantly he added Harley to the list of possibly interrogators, having so far realized that the kid knew a whole lot about a ton of things.

He was immediately distracted upon entering the kitchen and his mouth began to water at the food already on the table. He looked from his father and Bobby, who were both digging into their own plates, to the little hellion standing in front of the stove. Harley had turned upon realizing Dean had joined them and their eyes met. Dean's gaze practically begged for food while Harley's was at first amused and then curious.

"Is that," Harley began but paused. At the sound of the child's voice all three looked at the kid with quizzical eyes, wondering what he would say next, "Kelpie blood?"

Without even looking Harley's had moved to take the skillet off the burner and dump a pancake onto the awaiting plate, all the while he was still looking at Dean for an answer. Only after Dean said "What the hell's a kelpie," did Harley turn back to the stove and began to clean up his mess.

"You're not going to throw that away, are you?" the witch-child asked afterward, while tossing a dirty rag into the empty sink. No one answered as he then picked up two plates and made his way to the small kitchen table, setting one stack of pancakes in front of himself and another in front of an empty seat.

"Yeah, or do you have a problem with that?" Dean asked in return, still clutching the ruined shirt as he made his way to the delicious smelling food. He was still a little peeved for Harley's newly discovered technique for waking him up, but all of the annoyance melted away once the first forkful of fried dough touched his tongue.

Harley watched with much confusion as Dean's mood melted away before realizing it must have been the food. In the small amount of time they knew each other the older man seemed to make a hobby out of eating, the only question was to where did he store all of it? After much consideration Harley decided it must have been stored in his large head, because there obviously wasn't a brain there.

Then he turned to survey his adopted father and John, who couldn't seem to decide between watching their sons and eating. John was actually closer to finding a balance as he gazed at his own child before taking a big bite and moving to look at Harley, waiting for what he would say next.

"My bank manager's are visiting today," Harley said uncertainly. Bobby already knew the goblins were coming, and after many conversations had agreed to not shoot them on sight, but the older man didn't know how it was relevant to Dean's soiled clothing. "And kelpie blood is notoriously hard to come across because they can't be held captive and are known for killing…well, a lot of people." Harley watched as the pointed connected and John's eyes lit up a bit, gazing at Harley as if begging to know 'is it really true?'

"So?" Dean asked before shoving another crowded fork of pancake into his mouth, "Wait, do those bank managers have anything to do with that goblin book you fell asleep on? The ones that it said run the money in…wherever?"

Harley held his breath for a moment as he realized Dean almost could have said 'Wizarding World,' before he recalled that it had actually said 'European Banks.' "Yes," Harley answered, "and, for a price,' they'll find buyers for kelpie blood. Their percentage is eight percent for creature parts, last time I checked." He tried to say it all casually, punctuating his last word with a deep drink from his coffee while avidly avoiding the looks on all three men's faces.

"We can get paid for that thing we killed?" Dean said in an airy voice, as if in a little shock. He held up his shirt in his other hand; his food was momentarily forgotten as he stared at the black and watery fluid that clung to the fabric. "What do you get for ganking ghosts?" he looked at Harley with hopeful eyes.

"Jail time if you do it within the jurisdiction of certain paranormal authorities," Harley replied blandly, "but I think they'll give you two goats in Peru." The look on Dean's face fell a bit and Harley sighed with a bit of guilt for being so insensitive to Dean's dream of having his own money, "you can probably set up your own account to sell creature parts to the goblins. Don't get greedy, that bit of kelpie blood is already worth a fair amount. People who do want it have to get it from private investors and such."

"How do you even know all of this," the younger Winchester then demanded, looking at the boy across from him with accusing eyes. "Are you pulling my leg?"

"I'm not," Harley replied honestly, "I did some research on kelpies and kappa's last year. I was curious, and the book was somewhat interesting."

"What about tulpa's? Do they count as creature things?" Dean asked, and the questioning didn't stop for hours. Not as they finished eating and Harley cleaned the kitchen, and Dean kept talking as he put dishes away without much thought. It didn't stop as Harley moved from the kitchen to the living room to tidy things up for their visitors and Dean, while still clutching his dirty shirt, nudged furniture out of the way so Harley could sweep under everything. The list of creatures and things went on as John retrieved his own bloody clothes, but Dean did stop talking for the time it took Harley to magically pull the fluid from the fabric and funnel it into a mason jar. There was far more blood than they had originally assumed, but once that was done Dean went on to ask about even more body parts and fluids that could possibly be sold for a profit.

Harley proved his knowledge was rather extensive, but readily admitted when he didn't know the answer to a handful of Dean's questions. He did ask some things in return, not very familiar with some of the American terms or creatures he'd never heard about. For example, he had no clue what a tulpa was and had grilled the younger Winchester about them until he was satisfied. Of course, he also knew what he was doing when he nudged Dean one way and he would automatically know what it was Harley was asking for. He didn't even seem to realize that he was helping him clean up without a single complaint. He took an extra effort to ignore the amused looks from Bobby and John, who seemed content to keep their own peace while they polished weapons from the safety Bobby's library.

Then the door bell rang. Rather a ringing occurred, but it sounded nothing like the regular chime of someone pressing the button outside. It was quite literally toll bells ringing from that general direction. At the sound Harley rushed to the front door, but only after he shoved Dean into the library with their fathers with quick orders to shut up. He spent a total of three seconds to run his hands over the front of his blue shirt and comb his fingers through his fine hair before flinging the door open and looking down.

There stood a pot bellied being with the thick green skin of a toad and cold black eyes of something far more sinister. He was dressed in well pressed trousers, fine velvet vest, lint-less blazer, and shiny shoes like any well respected businessman. Behind the first were two more dressed very similar, one holding a thick book and the other who had one hand on the handle of a very familiar trunk.

"Come in," Harley said excitedly, bearing all of his teeth as he smiled down at them, "I hope business has been exciting."

The first goblin walked in and stood in front of him, making sure Harley knew he was the one to be addressed during their meeting. The other two walked in behind him, the one carrying the large tome stood to the side and the one hauling his trunk made his way into the living room without further invitation.

The first goblin returned his toothy smile and opened his mouth to reply; only two loud shots rang through the room instead. Immediately Harley turned to survey where they had come from and nearly screamed. Apparently informing Dean that there would be goblins in the house was not enough warning, and the younger Winchester had fired two shots in panic. From the amount of blood and shouting Harley could only assume that at least one of those shots hit its target.

"Dean," Harley screamed, rushing into the room as if he could somehow help the situation. "You just shot one of my account managers! Put the gun down!" he continued to shout and then his eyes wavered to the side to catch sight of Bobby and John, who also had guns loaded and aimed at the goblins behind him. "You too," he said to the elderly humans. They barely blinked at his ranting and Harley whirled around to survey how the goblins were taking such things.

The goblin that had injured was still howling in pain, while the first to enter simply stood to the side and stared. It seemed the goblin holding the book had enough of the noise and brought the heavy text down on his wounded companions head, effectively silencing him. Sure he was unconscious, but at least things weren't so loud. "That," the goblin spat, "is a woman's sound."

It was a bit unusual for even Harley to have witnessed, but the other goblins looked as greedy and uncaring as they always did. "That was an interesting display of strength," the first goblin admitted, "and business _has_ suddenly grown more exciting," he continued as an answer to Harley's first inquiry.

"Aren't you gonna help yer friend?" Bobby asked, his guns till pointed at a target. Likewise John and Dean still had their weapons aimed.

The second goblin shrugged and spoke out of turn, "he'll not die by gunshot wound. We have already tried that." He received a warning glare from the first goblin, but didn't look properly chastised and simply went back to holding his book in an unobtrusive part of the room.

"It is taken as a impressive display of warrior strength," and then a second later the first goblin added, "for a human." His words succeeded in calming Harley somewhat, as the younger boy had read that displays of any strength were taken to heart and appreciated. Then he looked at the goblin and realized the bleeding had already stopped, and once that was determined Harley moved to take a seat in one of the arm chairs and motioned for the goblin's to take the couch.

Bobby and John lowered their weapons but John moved out of the library to stand guard on the other side of the room, his gun was tucked into the holster on his side and he glared at the two remaining goblins, daring them to make a wrong move. Bobby lowered his own weapon and took his seat behind the desk, with a wide selection of other guns laid out before him. They hadn't been taken by as much surprise as Dean had been. They'd communicated over the phone, Bobby telling the other hunter all he knew from his research. In return John had rushed him and his boy back so that they could keep guard over the situation. Neither one of them had thought they would need to prepare Dean. It had just slipped their minds.

Dean actually took it pretty well when the other men lowered their weapons, but Harley could see his ghost of a grin at the goblin's compliment. He didn't apologize for shooting their friend, though it would have been good human manners the goblins wouldn't have taken too kindly to it. "Not my fault that damn book didn't have any pictures," Harley heard him mumble as he moved to sit in the other arm chair.

"Business," the first goblin grunted, and immediately the second goblin opened his book and began to pen notes. "First; I am Stronghold, scribe is Sharptooth, the wounded is unimportant. He is not likely to wake before we're done."

"Harry Potter," Harley said first, "Make a note; I do not want anyone to know where I am or my assumed name. I would like all letters and official documents to be sent to Harley Singer until I'm ready to go back." To give credit where it was due Dean showed great measures of self restraint by not interrupting then, but he did file that information for a later time. "Bobby Singer," Harley continued while nodding to his adopted father, "John and Dean Winchester."

Stronghold nodded in understanding, "Understood, requirements will be met. Second order; personal belongings acquired from Humans; Weasleys' Arthur, Percival, Fred, George, Ronal, Ginervra, Neville Longbottom, Hermione Granger, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, and Severus Snape." Dean's giggling, which had started at 'Percival,' were thankfully ignored. Johns amused look didn't go unnoticed either, but Harley chose to ignore it as well. "These humans have also decided to pay the sum to beta test a new message system presented by the Ladies of Scry." Stronghold took a small marble sphere out of his tiny pocket and placed it on the table. "Activate the missive by touching your wand to the stone."

"I haven't one," Harley said with a huff, and reached out with his magic instead. Once a small jolt of his energy touched the stone it began to spin and a silvery cloud spewed out of it's center. It reminded him very much of the liquid from a pensive and he wondered if those Ladies of Scry had used similar method to create the new messaging system.

The mist moved and contorted until he could see the image of Arthur Weasley, looking into the mist with an expression of interest. "Is it working?" someone to the side must have nodded and Arthur nodded back, "good, good. Now, Harry? We don't know where you are, but we've been assured that you're alive at least. It's better than nothing."

Someone out of sight began to shout, two someone's if Harry was correct. They sounded like the Twins, and Harry watched in fascination as they pushed into the mist a moment later, one on each side of their father. "Isn't this great?" One said and the other picked up, "it couldn't have been better unless we thought of it ourselves," the other continued.

"Boys," the figure of Arthur said, "we haven't much time," and then he turned forward again, "we've gathered what things of yours we could find. Ron admits that there are likely other places you've stored your things and we'll be happy to retrieve them for you if you send a list along with Stronghold."

"Ask about the cookies," someone off 'screen' shouted, sounding very much like Harry's godfather, followed by someone else whose monotone voice could only belong to Snape delivering some insult.

The twins obviously knew what Sirius was talking about and turned serious looks in his direction, "will you send us cookies for Yule?" one asked pitifully, "the star shaped ones," the other one said and then they both finished with "With the yellow frosting?" Harry only rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. It seemed Ginny wasn't that great with secrets after all, but watching the Twins beg was sort of amusing.

"Tell him about Dumbledore," someone else shouted, while another voice screamed "Tell him I'm sorry." Before either of those things could be addressed someone was pushing the three Weasley's out of the way and Harry gazed upon the immature yet cheerful face of his godfather and the somewhat embarrassed expression on Remus' face.

More shouting went on in the background before Sirius stomped his food like the five year old he was then shrieked in response "I'm telling him… Dear Prongslette," he started. Remus simply elbowed him in the side and he started again, "Dearest Harry, first I would like to say that Remy and I miss you terribly and I'm sorry we haven't got to spend a lot of time together. Your parent's came to visit us and said that you could be happy…wherever it is you are." He paused when Remus elbowed him again for not getting to the point.

"We all feel you should know Dumbledore is looking for you. He's interviewed or at least tried to, every student you came into contact with and every ghost in the castle. Likewise, Siri and I have also been subjected to tea time with the Headmaster. None of our owls have been able to reach you, a blessing, but it's only a matter of time before Dumbledore realizes he can send you a letters through the bank. Please be careful." There was a pause and more shouting before Remus rolled his eyes, "Mister Longbottom would also like to apologize for letting 'Potions Roulette' slip. Truthfully though, Severus seems to have grown on the idea and might have found a new way to torture the students." An indignant shout resounded through the message and both Sirius and Remus rolled their eyes before being pushed out of the picture by a jumping Ginny who was dragging Ron and Hermione behind her.

"This is fun," she said cheerfully, "so Harry; mum wants the recipe for your Christmas cookies. Gred and Forge sent you prank stuff. Once Professor Lupin explained what the ghost of your mum and dad said Mione bought you day planners and wants to know all about the schools over there. The rest of us would like to know what you know about why Neville's cauldrons explode." Once she finished saying all she wanted to, throwing out a final 'We miss you, don't forget to write,' she skipped back to the side and someone pushed Neville in the way.

Poor Neville took one look at whatever it was that recorded their message, blushed horribly and walked off camera leaving just Ron and Hermione in the picture.

"We sent what we found," Ron began slowly, "which isn't everything, we know. Oh man," he paused as if to realize something more, "who's going to help me to talk Mione out of spending every waking moment at the library." To that he received a sock in the arm by the same girl.

"We sort of understand that you have something to do…wherever it is you are," Hermione took over, "remember to do your homework and please try not to get into too much trouble. You know how you get." Silence filled the next few moments before she started speaking again, "Whatever happened before you disappeared couldn't have been good, at least that's the impression we got. It felt…it felt as if you'd just disappeared, something clouded over the thoughts I had of you, it was horrible. It wasn't your fault though, whatever it was that happened. What we do know about what's going on is written down, since this message is going to end soon. It's quite a bit once you add it all up."

"The real hard part was getting Professor Snape to admit your mum visited him too," Ron added with a grin, "and he downright denies that he had anything to do with your dad."

Hermione cracked a grin at that bit, but it turned sad a second later. The last words he heard from them were 'take care,' and the mist fell onto the coffee table before disappearing.

Everyone was silent a moment longer, staring at the place the message had been. John and Bobby stood shocked, but tried to pretend they'd noticed nothing. Like the two elite hunters, the goblins denied seeing the display of affection from his friends. Dean had drawn his gun at the first sight of something odd and was too busy looking between the marble and Harry with thinly veiled emotions to notice he was being rude.

"Third order," Harley said a moment later, also ignoring the personal message. He promised himself he could fret over such things once business was out of the way.

Stronghold cleared his throat a moment later, "Third order; present account information."

From there things went relatively smooth. He'd received all of the information before, so it was nothing new. Their forth order was to retrieve any information Harry wanted to pass to his friends. Before he settle down to do so he presented the kelpie blood to the goblins with an order to get it appraised and properly sealed. Dean nearly fainted when he heard he could get fifteen thousand American dollars deposited into an account of his choosing if he handed it over to the goblins immediately. The goblins had only factored in a profit of five perfect for themselves, to show they really did appreciate Dean's display of hostility earlier that day. Afterward the young Winchester decided he liked the way they did business and offered to shoot another goblin if they wanted.

When business was concluded and further appointments were set for both Harley and the Winchesters the two goblins left, the scribe dragging the unconscious goblin by one of his feet, hitting every available surface on the way out. As soon as they were out of sight the Winchesters followed, to check the perimeter while Harley got to work on an early dinner, feeling as if he owed Dean a pie for some reason.

"Now that's all cleared up, and the John and Dean made some money off of that," Bobby said from the library, "you got placement tests tomorrow, for school."

Harley turned on his foot and glared at the wall as if Bobby could actually see him. Why was it that his adopted father took great joy from springing stressful news on him, as if he was only saying 'take out the trash.' "Why didn't you tell me earlier?" he shouted in annoyance.

His only response was a deep chuckle from the library.

* * *

**To Those Who Just Read:  
**

I'd like to dedicate the first half of this chapter to –w- easy (who I've been calling Weazy in my mind, because that's what I thought it had said when I skimmed over the first review) who is awesome. I figured that instead of a long reply to Weazy's review, I would update instead, because they really have been awesome and ego-stroking.

No bonus this time because I spent too much time working out my reply to the flame and now it's four in the morning and I haven't even finished my chores. To make it a little more fun though, I've suddenly decided to host a contest.

**Contest Information:** Submit a picture or drabble dedicated to flogging those who flame with Purple Silicon Dick of Justice or other blunt object of your choosing. You will have until the 27th of July to submit your work, and from there I will choose a winner. First Place Winner gets a guest appearance in the next case, using an original character or a shameless self-insertion. Second place gets to pick the POV of the next Bonus feature. Third and forth get small cameos. Everyone else gets a cyber hug and my appreciation. I am open to suggestions about the prizes.

I'm not sure it'll catch on. I bet someone will win by default because they were the only one to submit something…that's actually pretty funny now that I think about it. It's possible that it's only amusing because it's past four in the morning.

Will look back on this in the morning and say 'what was I thinking?'

I like quotes and reviews,

Alzipher


	11. Chapter 11

**To the Masses:** Thank you for all of the support and great reviews. I really appreciate everything you guys have said, with the exception of 'Diarrhea Highway Hound.' To show my thanks I figured I would get a crack on the rest of the story.

Non-Cannon Ages

Harry/Harley: Fourteen (Birthday is July 31st)  
Sam: Nineteen (Birthday is May 2nd)  
Dean: Twenty-two (Birthday is January 24th)  
John and Bobby: Prehistoric (I didn't bother looking it up)

**Warnings:** OOC, AU, OC's, Slash, mentions of abuse, mentions of sexual abuse , -inhales-, Manipulative Dumbledore, choppy concepts, awkward sentence structures, Cunning Harry, inspires more questions and answers, underage drinking, underage smoking, cradle robbing, other illegal things, cross-dressing, erratic updates, homophones, blood, gore, and other stuff.

**Flamers will be laughed at and mocked without mercy until I get bored. **

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Supernatural or Harry Potter.

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

_Odd one, you're never alone_  
_I'm here and I will reflect you_  
_Both of us basically unattached_  
_To anything or anyone unless we're pretending_  
_-Odd One by Sick Puppies_

It was the first time in the last eight days that Harley woke in the middle of the night to find that he was the only one occupying the bed. It was scary how quickly he'd grown used to the warmth of someone else close by, and while he was being honest with himself he would also admit that Dean's presence in general was confusing and a bit frightening.

It wasn't even a month ago that he was at Hogwarts and he wouldn't even admit exactly why the young Winchester's presence disturbed him. While he could admit to himself now what Petunia had done to him, he still wouldn't allow himself to think about her actions at such an hour or while he was completely alone. The new silver cuff at the top of his ear, hidden by layers of black hair, tingled as he remembered what it was he promised little Chloe (forget that they were around the same age and she was actually a bit taller than him). They'd promised to move forward, not wallow in the nightmarish memories and he'd created that single piece of jewelry specifically to remind himself of that.

Any further thoughts were interrupted as Harley felt out with his magic, unconsciously seeking Dean and finding him in the kitchen. Then upon realizing he probably wouldn't get back to sleep soon, swung his feet over the edge of the bed and began to make his way to the youngest hunter and –knowing Dean- some pie.

He did his best to stay silent as he made his way downstairs, not wanting to wake up the elderly men who needed as much sleep as they could get. His best was actually pretty damn impressive, and his feet made not a sound as he walked towards the clean kitchen.

The sight was one that he'd expected; Dean getting himself a tick slice of the apple pie. His back was turned to the entryway as he worked the butter knife underneath the crust and attempted to shovel the whole thing onto a tiny plate. Harley watched from the doorway as Dean wrestled with the pastry and finally succeeded in getting the food onto the dish, breaking his slice into three smaller ones as he worked.

"Is that for me?" Harley whispered with much attitude, while leaning against the door jam.

Dean immediately jumped and whirled in shock, but at least he hadn't pulled his weapon out. Harley couldn't bring himself make fun of Dean for taking his beloved guns wherever he went, even if it was just downstairs to get a midnight snack. The little wizard was sure that if he'd had the same training that Dean did then he'd carry a gun with him even to the toilet. "Dude," was the first reply, said in a tone that communicated much more. It was part of what Harley liked about the guy, that with only one word he could mean 'don't you know now to sneak up on me by now?' "Has anyone ever told you that you walk like the dead?"

"The dead don't walk Dean," Harley replied lightly, "they float. If the dead did walk then we would all be in a lot of trouble," because he would know, Dean had made him watch almost every zombie movie ever made in the last week. The young man would deny that though, claiming that he'd only shown Harley a handful of the better flicks.

"Nah," Dean disagreed; as Harley had spoken he'd turned back around and sliced off another heaping of pie. Harley's slice could be identified by being infinitely smaller, but not because he was greedy (Harley had so far proven that if Dean asked nicely there would be pie). The kid just didn't eat much, and while that bothered him, he'd accepted that about Bobby's boy-daughter. He kept those thoughts to himself though, and continued to talk once they were both settled at the table. "We're hunters, we'd kick zombie ass."

It was the first time that Dean had ever included the child in his definition of 'hunter,' and Harley's eyes dropped to his pie as he processed what that meant. That Dean had accepted him, that they were friends, that he wasn't as weak as he though he was. Then guilt welled up within Harry's gut and he stabbed the poor apple pie with his fork. Dean didn't now he was magic, not like John and Bobby did. They'd all lied to him when they'd called Harley psychic. Then he looked back up and straight into Dean's curious gaze, and the confession died on his tongue.

"Little man, you are an enigma wrapped in a mystery that got lost in a worm-hole," Dean said almost cheerfully. "Your name's not even Harley."

"No," he confessed, "it really is Harry Potter." He kept watch and didn't see any change in the other's expression. Harley himself was actually shocked that Dean had taken an entire week to start questioning him. "Once I was free of the demon John and Bobby took me up to our room and laid down the salt, not sure of what to make of me. Sometime during the night something took control of my conscious and pulled it to the surface, but not enough to wake me entirely." Harley looked up to see Dean was listening intently, but hadn't forsaken his pie. His lack of hostility prompted Harley to continue, "The ghost of my parents had appeared. They'd somehow tricked a reaper into bringing them from that plane of existence to this one. Their reason for doing so was to talk to certain people, not only John and Bobby. They explained things about my old life in a way I had never thought of before."

"Like what?" Dean asked before taking another bite of pie.

Before answering Harley stood and went to pour them a couple of glasses of milk. Originally Harley had thought Dean liked soft drinks and beer with everything, but he'd explained rather quickly that milk made pie taste so much better. For some reason that little detail of information stuck n Harley's brain and stayed with him until he reached his seat once more.

"Before I was even born there was a war between a man named Tom Riddle, who pitted his cult against the general population," Harley tried to explain. "He changed his name to Voldemort so long ago that barely anyone remembered who he was in childhood. He created a cult of…psychics who believed that the knowledge should be kept within certain families. In the end, or what should have been the end, he killed my parents and tried to kill me. Something went wrong and it rebounded, leaving only my scar."

"You mean those little lines on your forehead?" Dean asked, leaning forward so that he could gaze at the lightning bolt. "Wasn't it darker the other day?"

"Yeah, probably. It had been housing a piece of Voldemort's soul and I had no idea. Now that it's gone the scar has faded a bit and my eye no longer bothers me." Harley huffed and puffed his cheeks out cutely before taking an angry bite of his snack. "Dumbledore, the headmaster at my old school probably knew. The nurse probably knew. Hell, I bet there were probably a dozen or so other qualified persons who could have told me that I was carrying a piece of my parents' murderer with me."

"That's some dark shit," Dean muttered with the bare minimum amount of sympathy. He wasn't unfeeling, but the kid had so far showed him that feelings like sympathy and pity were not very welcome, "so this principal let you just go around with it stuck in you like that?"

Harley nodded, "I had no clue either, not until I pulled Tannin out of me, and found the little part of something else. When I touched it I realized instantly who it was. It wasn't until the ghost of my mother mentioned it, did I realize that Dumbledore hadn't had it removed sooner because he hoped he could use that connection to his own advantages."

"What the hell could he have gotten out of that?" Dean's tone held a world of anger directed a man he'd never met, but the more he heard the less he was willing to give the geezer a chance.

"My connection with Voldemort grew stronger almost a year ago, when he possessed the body of a woman. He had a tangible form, two very loyal followers, and a plan. When I mentioned my nightmares to him he told me they were likely only that, nightmares. When I came to him with my fears that one of our professors was an imposter he suggested I was being overly paranoid." Harley's thoughts turned back and he remembered all of their conversations; instances when Dumbledore could have told him the truth, moments in time when Harry could have changed the outcome of the year. "And I've already said what happened at the end of the year, and I still don't know what the end game was supposed to be."

"Dude," this time it was softer and almost cleansing, "none of that shit was your fault. You're only fourteen, what the hell did they expect you to do?"

"Fight, like I had before," Harley said in a sad way, full of bitterness and exhaustion. "So," he decided to get back to the original point of why he wasn't using his real name, "my parent's begged John and Bobby to let me stay, for Bobby to take me in so that I could have a better life. Maybe it won't be easier," Harley shrugged, "and they agreed. I don't suppose they had much of a choice though. And as you know, if I want to stay hidden I can't go around telling everyone my real name."

"Yup," Dean's cheerful tone returned, "Hunting 101, the cops don't appreciate what you're doing, so don't let them catch you. One of the easiest ways to land yourself in the slammer is to go around without a few of these," from his back pocket he pulled out a thick wallet. Harley reached forward to grab it without even asking why the hunter still had his jeans on and hadn't even empties his pockets. He flipped the leather flap open and lining the insider were various cards. As he shuffled through them he discovered that they were all drivers' licenses and credit cards, each one had a different name. "Next question then," when Harley didn't disagree he continued, "who were all those characters that sent you the weird hoodoo message?"

"Friends," Harley replied automatically while handing the wallet back. "Ron and Hermione were my first friends. I met Ron on the train to the school, and he hated Hermione at first for being so much smarter than everyone else. The on Halloween one of the professors let a mountain troll into the castle, but she didn't know because Ron had made her cry and she was hiding out in the loo."

"So what? You and the other kid decided to go get her?" Dean asked, his interest in the story was very apparent. He hadn't ever come across a mountain troll before, didn't even know they existed, but he looked for any tips he could find.

Harley grinned, seeing Dean's hunter sensibilities kicking into gear. "Yeah," he said, "we broke away from the group and headed towards the loo Pavarti Patil said she was in. The troll got there before we did. Hermione was already hiding underneath a sink at the very end, but it was the last time she hid in a corner –I assure you. Ron and I threw things and made as much racket as he could until it turned around and Hermione ducked into a stall. It had this club you see, and I'm not sure how they get them. Mountain trolls are notoriously stupid, and this one was no exception. I find it hard they craft their own clothing and weapons, but this club…it was huge, at least six feet long and it swung dumbly. I had jumped on its back and shoved a stick up its nose, hoping to reach its brain. It didn't work of course, and the troll was still swinging blindly while trying to fling me of its back. Then from the corner I hear Hermione instructing Ron on something we'd learned earlier and…he did it. Ron levitated the club right out of the troll's hands, until one end touched the high ceiling. Then he let it drop, it landed on the things head, and knocked it out cold."

It had been a while since he'd thought about that night, since it was such a small little skirmish compared to some of the other things he'd been through. His eyes were distant as he recalled every detail and emotion that he could. When he was done a smirk stretched his lips and he looked back at Dean. "When the professors did manage to catch up to it they were too shocked to give us a real punishment."

"You guys haven't been friends long then, huh?" Dean asked while he assumed that Harley had been talking about some equivalent to high school, which children usually started around thirteen.

Harley shook his head before replying, "We were only eleven at the time."

"Dude," this time the word conveyed shock and awe. "You guys outclassed your teachers when you were only eleven!" His pie also happened to be finished and he'd pushed his plate away, and had been playing with his half-empty glass of milk.

"I guess," he shrugged awkwardly. "The other redheads were Ron's family. Arthur is his father, and was nice enough to let me stay with them before second year, and he took us to the event that got crashed the summer before fourth. He's very nice and understanding. The Twins are Fred and George; they're the pranksters of the lot. Ginny's their only sister and the youngest out of all of them. You didn't see Percy, but he was there as well." Dean's snickering had started again at the mention of Percival 'Percy' Weasley and Harley only rolled his eyes and grinned, "They have two older brothers. Bill is the first, he breaks curses for Gringotts and Charlie tames dragons."

The chuckling stopped at the last bit of information and Dean looked as if he would chock on his own tongue, "Like real, fire breathing, movie like dragons?"

"Yes. The reserve he works at is somewhere in Romania, and there are fourteen more between Asia and South America. Charlie works at one of the smaller ones. I think Ron said they had seven dragons in all, but three of them had nests the last time I heard." What he didn't mention was that he'd fought a dragon himself. Even if Dean did believe him he didn't want to have to explain the circumstances he was under that led him to fight the Horntail to begin with.

"It's like there's an entire community we don't even know about," Dean said afterwards. "You know all about these creatures I've never even heard of and some I didn't know even existed; trolls, dragons, kelpies. Next you're going to tell me unicorns are real too," when Harley averted his eyes and looked at the ceiling then the floor before they turned back to his pie, "holy shit. Unicorns exist. Is Bigfoot real too?"

"Not so far as anyone can prove," Harley said helpfully, "there are conspiracy theorists in every culture. I have heard someone say they think Bigfoot is really just a hairy giant. Giants have very thin blood though, so it isn't very likely."

"I noticed you didn't exactly deny the 'entire community we don't even know about," Dean stressed a moment later, his eyebrows knitted together as he cried to cope with the fact that giants also existed.

"There is," Harley states plainly, "so that people like me could live their lives without hiding their abilities or species. We were literally taught everything there is to know about the witch trials and burnings. When I was only thirteen they told us the methods of torture that were used, where they were, area's to avoid that still held the same beliefs. One of my dorm mates had nightmares so bad he had to sleep in the infirmary for a week. So you can understand why you might not have heard about it before."

Dean nodded, "yeah. I get that, totally. Hunters hide too you know, otherwise half of us would be facing serious jail time and the other half would probably be institutionalized." Harley also nodded, because he could see that point of view too. "So all of the redheads are your Weasley friends? That Mione chick is the brains out of the bunch, but why do I get the impression that you're the real genius."

"I'm not really," Harley huffed, "Hermione tends to memorize things word for word. She could probably parrot back to you anything she's ever read, and Ron and I have always had a really hard time getting her to leave the library. She's also very competitive in that right and I don't see any reason why I shouldn't just let her have that."

"Fair enough," the younger Winchester conceded, "who was that really shy guy?"

"Neville," Harley said plainly, "he's a genius in Herbology, but his clumsiness often gets him in trouble in every other class. I can't be mad at him for letting 'Potions Roulette' out of the bag either." Harley took a moment to explain to Dean what the game entailed and the man simply stared back in shock before he was able to laugh at the thought of exploding cauldrons. "His problem is that he's too good at Herbology. You see, potions consist of mixing dead plants and animal parts in a specific way to get a specific outcome. It's all very precise, even the number of times something is stirred means something. Neville's affinity with plants literally brings them back to life. The plant is no longer in the state it needs to be to make the potion work right, and it drastically alters the outcome."

"You didn't tell them any of this before?" Dean asked. He'd caught onto the fact that they'd been in school for four years, that they had potions from the very beginning, that Neville had likely always had that problem. The only thing he could get was why no one had fixed it when it first started.

"It's not something he can control," Harley said honesty and sighed sadly, "he'll always have that issue, and he'll also have to continue to take the class because it's mandatory until sixth year." He only wished he could see the look on Neville or Snape's face when they read the letter.

"Didn't you think about, oh I don't know, his peace of mind?" he sounded stubborn and a bit peeved, but it warmed Harley's heart to see kindness being shown to a total stranger.

"I had thought of that, but I didn't want Neville to loose hope either. If I had told him when we were eleven that he would never make a successful potion and it was in fact his fault, purposely or no, he would have let that hold him back. At least he knows the theory, which he likely wouldn't have even listened to otherwise."

"Alright then," Dean accepted easily enough, "last two characters. The guy who stomped his foot and the other one with the scars? Who were they?"

"The five-year-old is my godfather, Sirius Black," Harley tried to say as casually as possible.

"No freakin' way. The Sirius Black? Didn't he kill like ten people or something?" Dean didn't know whether to be excited or concerned. He could understand looking bad in the eyes of the law. His current record had at least half a dozen charges of grave desecration, and they would never understand just how important salting and burning those bones actually was.

"He was charged with fifteen accounts of murder, but he didn't kill them. Peter Pettigrew blew up that street and cut off his own finger so it would look as if Siri had done it and Peter was dead. He was one of the followers that helped Voldemort this past year." Harley crossed his arms and huffed in irritation. He hated Peter Pettigrew more than anyone would probably know, but what bothered him the most was that while Peter got to run around incognito Sirius was being hunted down. "The other man was Remus Lupin, they're both childhood friends of my father. I suspect though that Siri and Remy are a bit more than friends though."

"Who remodeled his face?" was the next question.

"He's a werewolf," before Dean could start imitate anything his father had said before he held up a hand, "all lunar based transformations have been categorized as 'Lycanthropy,' making werewolves a very generalized term. From the day the goblins visited I can assume that you've only come into contact with a sub-species that originated with the Aztec's."

Harley paused and wasn't sure how to continue, "I once read a book that said very plainly that there was once an Aztec king who was cursed by the gods for the cruelty he dealt to his wife and children. In actuality it was probably a blood-based curse, but the effects left him feeling 'heartless.' And when the tides were high the moon pulled the beast from within and he would need to feed on the hearts of humans to fill the void. One survivor attacked another until the curse was spread to a great many people. They were characterized to have the appearance of a human with the teeth, claws, and mind of a killer."

"What does this have to do with your godfather's booty call?" Dean snapped impatiently.

Harley smirked at the new title Remus had just acquired, "I was getting to that," he said to the man across from him. "In Gaul before the time of Merlin there was said to be a King Wolf, which was the size of a horse and had the appearance of any normal European wolf. They supposedly lived in peace for hundreds of years, but the tyrant that ruled over the lands wanted the King Wolf destroyed for holding a title he thought was meant only for him. Armies swarmed the forest and all but the King died, and out of his sorrow he used the magic of the earth around him to curse the tyrant. The leader of man would feel what he felt; the bloodlust, the need for meat and revenge, the sorrow of losing his family and his own mind. Out of this legend they same came the type of werewolf that Remy is; his bones break and shift, his skin sheds, his humanity is lost in favor of those feelings. In the end he looks much like a wolf type humanoid, or something. I heard it's overwhelming, and left alone a transformed werewolf inflict wounds upon themselves to fulfill their emotions. "

Dean had listened to that story with a bit more patience, tensing once when Harley had said 'magic.' "How is that much better?" he asked.

"The wolfsbane potion allows the human to keep their mind through the transformation, so that they don't do harm to themselves or others. He's not exactly a cute and cuddly puppy, but he doesn't go around mindlessly attacking people. I'm not saying that it doesn't happen, because it does. Sometimes a person just caves into the pressure of society and they take to the wild, sometimes they become killers and sometimes they don't. Remy chose not to do any of that, and is still the most kind and gentlest person I know, including Neville."

Dean thought to himself for several moments; about humanity, the different species he didn't know existed, and evaluating his own morals. On one hand he'd learned that werewolves were evil and should be killed, even if they were good wholesome people every other night of the month. Then again he'd been introduced to goblins and even though they were ugly as sin they seemed alright. They certainly acted like the bloodthirsty bankers he'd dealt with before. There were other things to consider also, like the little hidden community of British psychics that he wasn't supposed to know about. Then there was Harley's say so, and so far the kid proved to have pretty good judgment.

"Okay," he said finally with a shrug, standing and picking up their empty plates. Without being asked he put them in the sink and Harley followed moments later with their empty milk glasses.

"Okay?" Harley asked incredulously. He certainly thought it would be harder to deal with Dean Winchester on the issue of werewolves and their rights to live. He was used to living in a world where lycanthropes were treated like dirt and people were narrow minded and full of hate. Then all Dean had said was 'okay,' like all he needed was a minute to assimilate all of the knowledge and come to a morally just conclusion.

"Yeah, 'okay.' I was just wondering if that 'bane stuff would work on that first kind of werewolf too. Like if they took it they wouldn't go all crazy and kill people on the full moon," Dean actually had a point. Harley didn't have an answer for him either, but his eyes were wide because he hadn't thought of that before. He certainly just sprouted a reason to write a lengthy letter to his least favorite professor though. Despite his smart moment he could still trust Dean to have a short attention span and as they walked back up the stairs he asked "So are you going to send one of those hoodoo holograms to your buddies?"

"I don't know," Harley whispered back, feeling uncomfortable for talking so close to their sleeping fathers. "I could always write the goblins and ask them how it's done."

"Cause that message thing was awesome. It reminded me of that thing on Star Wars," he continued with excitement.

They'd reached their room again and Harley crawled back underneath his covers, and they were _his_ covers –Dean always kicked them off anyway. He rolled on his side a few times until he was wrapped in his usual cocoon, his injured arm held close to his chest and the other holding the blankets. Dean followed a moment later, still dressed in his jeans and as shirtless as he was before. Without a word he wrestled a pillow from underneath Harley's head, and the magic child let him because he still had the other two.

As they relaxed Harley took his discomfort and examined it with a keen wit. Dean's warm body next to his wasn't uncomfortable when it should have been, and that was ultimately the reason for his unease. He wondered about the damned demon and his aunt again before he decided they weren't worth a thought, but before that he considered their actions and wanted another shower.

"What's Star Wars?" Harley finally asked once they were settled in and his feelings had evened out. He watched with sleepy eyes as Dean's muscles stiffened in shock.

"Dude," and this time his tone was full of astonishment and a bit of excitement, "we're so watching that tomorrow."

They both fell back asleep with relative ease, and Harley still woke up at the same time as he did every day despite their midnight conversation. The sun was shining through their window, the salt and runes around their bed reflected a bit and glistened in the morning light, birds were singing and Hedwig had returned to her favorite spot on the headboard.

Harley awoke as he normally did, slowly at first and then pondered the warmth he was curled into. After opening one eye he realized he'd once again curled into Dean's side and that he'd reclaimed the pillow from before and still had all of the blankets. Then again Dean had most of the bed and was drooling on the sheets. A thought struck him then, as soon as he was done deciding against waking the hunter just to annoy him.

The thought that occurred wasn't anything new, but a calling that gave him instructions and urged him to follow through. Instantly he was awake again and he turned to the nightstand on his side of the bed. Lying on top of it was a small jar full of polished obsidian and the cross from the girl at the hospital. He needed one thing more, something black. Oxyn would do, he decided as he grabbed the obsidian and silver and rushed out of the room.

Dean woke just about every time the bed moved, and was glad that Harley wasn't normally a restless sleeper. He had watched from where he was pretending to sleep as Harley instantly rolled out of bed instead of slowly turning and waking like he normally did. He then kept a keen eye as Harley stared at the black stone and silver that he'd been keeping on his nightstand for the past three nights. He remembered the cross used to have a chain, but he wasn't very sure where it had gone. With much curiosity on his mind he too got up and put on a shirt before he went downstairs.

His own father wasn't awake and probably wouldn't be until breakfast as underway. Bobby usually got up early to start the coffeemaker, knowing that no one else could without having a cup of joe first, which actually created a sort of paradox that no one really wanted to ponder. He did nod to Bobby as he reached the first floor; the old hunter in turn jerked his head in the direction of the library.

Three more steps and Dean could see Harley cruising the jars of stones he kept in a single corner. He was looking for something specific, Dean realized, and as proven right a moment later when Harley pulled back with another jar of some more black rock and set it on the large desk with the other two items. "Whacha doin'?" Dean asked with interest.

Harley stopped instantly, only just realizing that he was being watched. He stuttered several things for a moment before Dean raised a single eyebrow and gave him a mocking look that inspired much annoyance. "Hoodoo," he snapped finally but he still looked very uncomfortable.

"Why?" Dean asked in return, just to toy with the pipsqueak.

Harley huffed, puffed out his cheeks, but didn't answer. Instead he dumped the entire second jar of black rocks onto the desk. "Oxyn," he said sharply and then placed one hand in the air above the rocks.

Harley had never actually allowed anyone to see him doing what he was about to before. It only took simply magic to change the shape of something, witches and wizards transfigured things daily. There was something entirely different about what he was doing though, as he allowed his magic to wash out of his hand and the stones began to float through the air. He concentrated on changing their shape, which was easy enough, but put more thought into the traits of the stone. He wanted it to heal and protect, he wanted it to work with the other two materials, he wanted it to bend to the owners needs and deep wishes. Slowly the rocks melted together and he was left with the hilt of something not yet finished.

Dean watched as a second hand came up and hovered over the first jar of black stone, "Obsidian," Harley said slowly. His snappish tone had been lost as the magic washed over him and his feelings weren't so important anymore. Only the magic mattered, and the intent of what he was doing.

The lava rock instantly began to melt and then Harley put more magic into smoothing out its edges until the flat blade glittered and reflected. He wanted it to be steadfast and durable, and it took a lot of consoling to get the stone as sharp as he wanted it to be. When it was finished its blunt end slid into the handle without difficulty, and to Dean's eyes it looked as if it would be perfectly balanced.

That still left the silver, and the hunter watched with open interest as the cross stretched and twisted until it was a thin needle. The tip met the hilt and it quickly began to scribble against the blade. It was apparently the decoration, but Dean didn't know what those funny little symbols meant either. He thought maybe he'd seen them somewhere before, but he couldn't quit place them.

Harley wrote five simple runes. Thurisaz was for protection, Eihawaz for perseverance, Sowelu for good health, Teiwaz for courage and energy, and the final rune was Mannaz which stood for humankind and deep wisdom. With the remaining silver he secured the blade into its handle and wrapped it around the hilt carefully.

With a final burst of magic he willed it to Dean, who had given him friendship and understanding. There was only one thing left to do. "Before this is yours," Harley said carefully, meeting Dean's curious eyes with his own. Nervousness welled up inside of him has he thought of the question he'd been putting off since their first meeting. "I need to know who you thought I was, the first time we met."

"I thought you were a chick, remember," Dean said in good humor. The kid was being far too serious for eight in the morning and for a fourteen year old in general.

"Before that maybe," Harley said, "when I walked into the room you looked disappointed. Who did you think I would be?"

The silence that followed his question was tense. He could even feel the anticipation seeping form his adopted father from the kitchen, but he didn't care someone else was listening. The ritual called for Dean to give him something more, and if he would just answer that one question then it could become complete.

Dean didn't see a reason not to answer. He'd asked Harley all sorts of personal questions just as soon as they occurred to him. That one inquiry would be the first he'd made, but Dean didn't want to say. He didn't want to admit it to himself, because he'd been doing such a good job wallowing in denial for the past year. He felt morally compelled though, after having received so much insight and having given nothing in return.

Harley had moved form behind the desk and stood in front of him, holding the black and silver knife by the blade so that Dean could hold it by the hilt. The young Winchester grasped it without much of a thought; the answer was at the tip of his tongue.

"My brother," he said tensely, "I thought my brother had come home."

**Bonus POV**

The group that the devious Twins had dubbed 'The True Fans of Harry Potter,' sat in the empty drawing room of Sirius Black's childhood home. The every exclusive club consisted of Weasley's Arthur, Fred and George, Ronald, Ginervra, and Percy, Hermione Granger, Neville Longbottom, Sirius Black and his booty call, and Severus Snape. They had been under debate about allowing Dobby the House-Elf and Hagrid in, but after several rounds between Sirius and Severus it just didn't seem worth considering anymore.

That night they had all been called together because they'd received a reply from Harry, the person behind their coming together. His letter was lengthy and surprisingly well written. Surprising to Severus at least, who was under the impression that Mister Potter didn't know the difference between a verb and a noun. His dour mood during the proceedings was mostly due to being proven wrong. Again.

The beginning of the letter was dedicated to 'I already knew's. Snape and Hermione Granger were apparently the only two annoyed with that particular section. He'd known Dumbledore would go after him, he'd known the owls couldn't reach him (further explained that because of he no longer considered 'Harry Potter' to be his primary identity that the owls probably felt as if he was unreachable), and he'd already known his parents ghosts had pranked a reaper. Furthermore, he'd known Moody wasn't really Moody almost the entire year (he'd also included an 'I told you so.'), that his search party had multiplied to a ridiculous number of people, and that Cedric Diggory was deceased. His classmate's death wasn't talked about in great detail, but they could all feel that Harry placed the blame upon himself.

That was followed up by a detailed description of what he knew about the ritual that brought Voldemort back, at least they thought that's what it was. Harry hadn't included anything about his magic getting out of control or his demon possession. He then asked for any information they could gather about the subject. Remus had called dibs on that research subject before any of the other nerds in the group had a chance. Sirius had given him much exaggerated high-five, before he realized he would probably also be drafted to help.

There was an entire section dedicated to Potions Roulette, giving tips and the like to Snape about how to best play with the students. One of which was shuffle the cauldrons twice, one right after the other. Severus didn't at first appreciate 'helpful tips' from a student, especially a Potter, but even had to admit that last one could provide much amusement.

Then Potter dropped the bomb. "Will be unable to make a successful potion…affinity with plants…regenerate…blossom when it requires only a stem…" both Neville and Snape could barely listen to the entire explanation. Neville's expression was one of relief; just to know there was a reason and he wasn't a complete idiot unloaded a burden he didn't now was there.

Then everyone had turned to survey Severus who hadn't said a word. His black eyes were wide as he stared into nothing, mentally evaluating everything he'd seen or heard about Longbottom. He went over classes over potions; he evaluated accidents and created theories. He couldn't believe he'd missed it. After that thought had occurred he realized that he couldn't even believe it was possible. No one had ever done what Neville Longbottom constantly did by accident.

"Holy shit," Sirius said, interrupting all thought. Snape might have considered thanking his enemy for pulling him out of his own thoughts. Sirius grinned in his direction as if he'd known exactly what Seveurs had been thinking.

"How is that even possible?" Percy asked then, crossing his arms and sticking his nose in the air. His family chose to ignore the actions and tone, only acknowledging the words themselves. Severus and Remus chose to disregard his attitude as well because they'd taught the little snot. Sirius could only stare in curiosity as if he could literally see the stick up the young man's ass.

"I guess we have to write back and ask," Ginny said excitedly, already pulling out parchment and quill to jot it down.

The crowd had wallowed in silence a bit longer before Miss Granger, their official announcer of things, continued reading the letter. The rest was rather personal compared to everything before. Harry even acknowledged Neville's brief cameo by saying 'looks like you've grown a bit.'

Harry had agreed the message system was cool and asked very pointed questions, things that most of them had never even considered to ask. He'd teased Sirius and Remus about their poorly concealed relationship. He even suggested they ask Luna Lovegood if she also wanted to stay in contact, but he was purposely vague on that subject.

There was only once sentence dedicated to the star shaped confections; "You'll get your damn cookies."

Then there was a basic run through of his new 'family,' but there weren't a lot of details. He lived with an old man who liked to hunt, who promised to teach him the same. His new 'daddy's' best friend was an ex-marine, which Hermione and Remus took great pains to explain to the rest of the crowd, and his son stayed with them often. He did complain about the state of the house at great length and asked if there was anyway they could subtly acquire Molly's recipe for chicken and mushroom pie. According to Harry, nothing of real interest had happened thus far.

Ron didn't think that was true for a single moment and said so loudly; "he can't honestly expect us to believe that!"

"We'll that's all you're going to get," Hermione had shouted back and then said in a much more subdued tone, "now who wants to go look for Harry's things?" She waved a two page list at the crowd around her.

"Oh," one Twin said rather suddenly, "we can have a scavenger hunt," the other continued enthusiastically. Not even seconds later Sirius agreed to jump on that particular bandwagon, no doubt dragging Remus with him.

In the end it was decided, finding Harry's things would turn into a game. Severus cursed his luck for drawing 'buried in the corner of Aunt Petunia's rose garden.'

* * *

**To Those Who Just Read:**

Wahoo! I already have four submissions for the contest and two maybes! That's four submissions and two maybes more than I thought I would get. To reiterate;

Purple Silicon Dick of Justice Contest: 'Submit a picture or drabble dedicated to flogging those who flame with Purple Silicon Dick of Justice or other blunt object of your choosing. You will have until the 27th of July to submit your work, and from there I will choose a winner. First Place Winner gets a guest appearance in the next case, using an original character or a shameless self-insertion. Second place gets to pick the POV of the next Bonus feature. Third and forth get small cameos. Everyone else gets a cyber hug and my appreciation. I am open to suggestions about the prizes.'

To talk about the chapter: That's not really what order I was going to put stuff in, but –shrugs-. I hope Harry's creation of that knife wasn't too melodramatic or confusing. It'll be pretty important for a really long time, though it's likely that would go unnoticed until about season three. I also hope their conversation wasn't too boring for the peeps? I don't' remember what else I was worrying about.

I'd like to give a special thanks to the reviewers and people who added. Let's all give a round of applause to AoMorigirl, halfbreedcreature, Magpie quill, and Weazy (-w- easy enough) for their submissions.

Like them quotes and reviews,

Alzipher

P.S. Flamer update: Motel 59 by scarletseptember was also targeted by dhh. That's just sad sauce.


	12. Chapter 12

**To the Masses:** It's the reviews I tell you! I like them so much that I must post again so that I might talk to more of you readers.

Beta: Babe Myne. Special thanks for the help.

Purple Silicon Dick of Justice Contest is still open for submission, and will be until Comic con starts on Tuesday.

Non-Cannon Ages

Harry/Harley: Fourteen (Birthday is July 31st)  
Sam: Nineteen (Birthday is May 2nd)  
Dean: Twenty-two (Birthday is January 24th)  
John and Bobby: Prehistoric (I didn't bother looking it up)

**Warnings:** OOC, AU, OC's, Slash, mentions of abuse, mentions of sexual abuse , -inhales-, Manipulative Dumbledore, choppy concepts, awkward sentence structures, Cunning Harry, inspires more questions and answers, underage drinking, underage smoking, cradle robbing, other illegal things, cross-dressing, erratic updates, homophones, blood, gore, and other stuff.

**Flamers will be laughed at and mocked without mercy until I get bored.**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Supernatural or Harry Potter.

* * *

**Chapter Twelve**

_It is easier to find men who would volunteer to die, than to find those who are willing to endure pain with patience. -Julius Caesar _

It was the night of the full moon, exactly one month since he woke up and felt the pain slowly burning its way through his body. He could still remember every smell and every sight from that night and it haunted him as if it happened only the night before. Every time he blinked he would see the deteriorating body that Voldemort possessed, Wormtail cutting of his own hand, or Cedric Diggory's dead body. Each time a new image presented itself to him he would shake his head and feel the hole in his chest growing bigger.

Worse still was the image of the moon that lingered just in the back of his mind and had for almost a week. Just two days after Dean and John had left to El Paso, Texas, to chase a pack of supernatural beasties a buzz started pricking the back of his eyes. One day after that the pricking became stinging and by the time it got to the day before the full moon Harley couldn't even get out of bed.

That morning he'd woken up at eight, like every day before, and rolled over. While Dean was gone he'd taken to sleeping on his side of the bed, he didn't know why, only that during the night at some point he would roll over and the morning he would be on the wrong side. Just as soon as he attempted to lift himself off the mattress to step onto the floor a pain shot up his spine and threatened to make his eyes explode. When that didn't work he tried to slip off of his sleeping place, only the cold air stung his flesh and he could barely get one foot onto the floor before it became too much and he slumped back against the pillow. He considered trying again, but at the concerned hoot of his precious owl, he thought that maybe it would hurt less to just cut off his own ears, and he decided maybe he should just go back to sleep.

Bobby didn't wait long to go upstairs and check on his new child. The old man had accepted a long time ago that teenagers liked their sleep, it was damn near impossible to wake Dean or his kid brother up when they were Harley's age. He also acknowledged that Harley wasn't like other teenagers and liked his schedule, so at nine when the kid hadn't gone to retrieve his cup of liquid happiness he put his newspapers down and made his way back up the stairs.

He knocked first, knowing how fourteen year old boys were when it came to privacy, but received no reply. He listened carefully and heard no movement so opened the door, and he had to scan the room twice before he understood that the pile of blankets was actually his son. The bundle didn't move as he walked into the room and around to the other side of the bed where Harley still had his foot on the floor because he couldn't find the strength to move it back underneath the covers.

"Harley?" he called again and watched as a single toe twitched, "kid are you alright?"

The little witch-boy had listened as his new daddy walking up the stairs, stopped at his door and called out softly. He had tried to respond, but the sheer effort it took to even open his mouth was too much and he only had just enough strength to keep the tears from falling. Then Bobby had come into his and Dean's room surveyed the unmade bed and its neat surroundings before walking further into the room. He still couldn't say a word though, only whimper as Bobby carefully pealed back the quilt and exposed his face and neck to the air.

"Yer not alright then," Bobby said uncertainly as he laid the back of his hand against Harley's forehead, only to have the boy writhe away and see water form in the corners of his eyes. "Yer ice cold boy," his voice was starting to sound uncertain and a little frightened.

Before anything else could be said the downstairs doorbell rang and Hedwig hooted angrily at the same time. Bobby didn't move at first, and Hedwig puffed her feathers in an intimidating way to tell him that she didn't appreciate that Harley was in pain and thought maybe the old man was to blame. Seconds after that the door bell rang twice more and a woman's shouting could be heard.

"Damnit," Bobby snapped and pulled away from his kid. He made his way downstairs quickly; ready to lay it into whatever impatient customer was leaning on his doorbell. He crossed his clean living room and the small foyer, and flung open the door without even considering a possible demon threat and securing a weapon. "What the hell do you want?" he asked as his angry blue eyes bored into the woman on his porch.

"I know you're worried, but that is no reason to talk to me like that," she snapped right back, her hand resting on her hip. "Bobby Singer," his eyes narrowed further and he began to work out a battle plan in his mind, "I'm Missouri Mosley a friend of the Winchesters."

"Missouri Mosley? The Missouri Mosley from Lawrence?" Bobby had asked, referencing to the Winchesters hometown where John was born and raised and both of his boys were born. He'd heard about the woman only briefly when he and John had first met, and explained to the ex-hunter that Missouri was a psychic that had opened his eyes. "The one and only. Now are you going to let me in?" a little irritation had crept into her tone and her foot was tapping on the porch which only succeeded in further irritating Bobby.

"What the hell for?" Bobby snapped back, his hand itching for his gun.

"Don't you dare point that gun at me Bobby Singer," she snapped, "and I am here for your son, Harry, or Harley whichever one he prefers." She had succeeded only in causing the older man much confusion, so she continued on, "he's got Moonsickness. That baby's been messing with the magical properties of the moon and messed it up, and now he's got to suffer the consequences. Now, I am here to help him as much as I can until someone else with much better training can take over."

Without arguing further Bobby swung the door open all of the way and stepped aside to allow Missouri in. She surveyed the clean house with a critical eye and hummed in happy approval before setting her purse on one of the small tables in the shallow foyer. Without even asking, as if it was her house and she'd been living there all her life, she walked up the stairs. Bobby was close on her tail, making sure she didn't do anything to harm his kid or his things, and soon they were both standing over the bundle that hadn't moved.

"Harley, baby," she called out as she pulled the quilt further away, "yes I know it's cold but you're going to have to move the blankets away. I need to see your mark."

Harley wanted to resist the woman who threatened to steal his blankets but his whole body felt heavy and if he did manage to move it more than a centimetre a pain would ignite and tear at his resolve to survive. When she asked to see his mark he could only think half-formed thoughts of confusion.

"The mark that appeared when 'he who would be powerful' was overpowered by that which was weak. The parasite that taint be burned and he would be free once again.'" She quoted solemnly. Bobby could only stare as she talked and received answers that he couldn't hear. Then she'd quoted something familiar, in both words and meaning.

"Down by his hip bone," Bobby said with a frown, "the parasite that taint be turned and he would be free once again," he muttered to himself. He'd read that somewhere, he was sure of it, but he couldn't recall which book it was in or even if it was in a text that he owned. "He who would be powerful was overpowered by that which was weak," he repeated again.

Missouri listened with half an ear as Bobby talked to himself, and she wondered for a second if he would be able to figure it out himself or if she would have to explain it to him when all had settled down. As she did so she began to unwrap the little boy before her, also wondering how he'd managed to get himself tangled up in the sheets and two blankets.

Then, as she began to work she picked up on thoughts she had no right to hear. He was panicking as she touched him; her dark nails accidentally brushing his sensitive skin every so often caused him shock and anxiety as well as an unimaginable pain. So she had tried talking to him in a kind voice, telling him about Dean and his little brother, Sam, when they were babies and how she used to watch over them. It only caused more dread, and she caught a wisp of an image; a woman with a horse face and thin hair hovering over him with a look of ecstasy and malice.

She pulled away instantly and didn't say a word as she stared down at the little boy and he looked back at her with eyes like burning jade. They stayed that way for a long moment as Harley talked himself down and tried to convince himself that this woman wouldn't hurt him like his aunt had and she was only trying to help him overcome whatever it was that was wrong with him. He wanted to believe what he was telling himself, he really did, but the terror he felt was too thick and threatened to drown him.

"Want Dean," he gasped out, his eyes staring at the woman. She couldn't feel it, but she was aware that it caused him great pain to say those two words.

Bobby felt something in him clench, but he let it go a moment later. In the time that they had spent together Dean and Harley only grew closer, but thankfully not to the point where Bobby would start demanding they sleep in different rooms. He was a bit jealous that they could have such a bond when Harley was his son, but he didn't appreciate those irrational thoughts at all. He figured he'd have to call and update John on their newest issue regardless, but; "damn, I forgot to call John." He took another step forward to look down into pain filled eyes and continued, "I'll be right downstairs, is that gonna be alright?"

Harley took the pains to nod once and tried to convey that he was sorry if Bobby's feelings got hurt, but he really did need the older man out of the room for what he and this mind-reading woman were getting ready to talk about. As soon as he felt Bobby reach the bottom step he formed a specific thought for her to receive. '_Stay out of my mind_,' he thought harshly.

"Do you want my help or not?" Missouri replied, but her tone was sad and full of unwanted sympathy, "I'm sorry I saw what I did. I apologize for intruding that deep, but your thoughts are hard to hear behind all of your hurtin'."

Harley's eyes screwed shut for a moment as he listened and formed his reply, '_Keep to the surface. I will send them as best I can_.' Then a moment later she heard, '_What is wrong with me?_' and it sounded so desperate that she thought her own eyes had teared up.

"You have Moonsickness child," Missouri said and when she received a lazy wave of confusion she continued, "you looked away from the moon while you were connected to her, and now you have to pay the price."

Harley closed his eyes and remembered her shining girth and the anger and guilt he felt, he remembered the feel of the stone as it crumbled around him, remembered the dread as he struggled to keep his magic out of the dead bodies in the ground. '_Will it be like it was before?_' he thought, directing it at the woman before him, '_Will the hurt go away?_'

"I don't know much about that," she replied honestly. Though it was not like lying would have gotten her anywhere, the child in front of her was powerful enough to smell an untruth from an airplane flying over the ocean on the other side of the world. "I still need to see your waist, child. If there's swelling that means that you're magic is trying to carve in the next set of marks." Another wordless question made its way into her understanding, "Mage marks, honey. Has no one explained any of this to you?"

'_No_,' he thought specifically, '_I thought I was just an odd one out again_.'

"Well I need to remove your blankets," Missouri tried to ignore the sadness just at the edge of thoughts as he realized he would never be normal, even amongst magic people. "Can I touch you long enough to get them off? I know it's cold honey, but they do need to come off."

His mind became irrational with fear for the briefest of moments before he regained control of himself. He knew she was going to have to look at his side, knew the blankets needed to come off and it would be much easier on his body if she did it rather than letting Bobby man-handle him. He cared for the old man that took him in, but they had to be realistic –Bobby wasn't the most gentlest of people. So he had a choice between the pain of his body or the one on his mind, and as he tried to turn on his side as he normally would do dislodge his nest of material he conceded. Missouri had to be allowed to touch him.

"Why don't I let you into my mind," Missouri suggested a moment later, "it's the least I can do child, and it might help keep the calm." Green eyes blinked once and then a second time incredulously. Him reading her mind just seemed impossible without the use of magic and he had already accepted that it was a dangerous notion. "You can do it child, why do you think you hurt so bad anyway? It's not just any old pain, the flood gates have opened darlin' and the waves of your power are tormenting your body."

It made sense, Harley accepted. Then he just felt lost when he realized he had no idea how he was supposed to connect to her mind. Knowing magic and wizardry as he did it probably had nothing to do with common sense, but he tried his best anyway. So he closed his eyes tightly and concentrated on the woman in front of him, throwing his attention towards her entire being, and slowly as if the tides were rising he could see everything about her. '_I see you_,' he thought, experiencing what happiness he could through his current situation.

'_As I see you child_,' she responded, and he could feel her good intent and wallowed in it. He allowed his own mind to skim over hers and it was like a cooling balm against his aching body. '_I need to move the blankets now; I need to see your mark_.'

Horror set in almost immediately, but it seemed more bearable now that he could concentrate on her intent and thoughts. She even projected certain things that she thought could provide a certain amount of amusement, and she knew exactly how much it meant to him to see Dean as a child and watch him interact with a baby he identified as 'Sammy.'

Soon enough the blankets were unraveled enough for Missouri to move them out of the way, and his body was no longer shivering but shaking as the cold washed over him and every nerve in his body was shooting signals to his brain. '_Cold_,' he thought over and over again, and not even an image of a toddler Dean with a puppy could shake him out of his mantra.

Missouri tried to ignore his discomfort as well as she could while still being mindful to his condition, but some things took more precedence. She stared down at him for a moment, watching his body rock with the force of his nerves. She could already see his bones press against his overly large shirt and there was no way around the fact that he had chicken legs.

Then Bobby was at the door again, a concerned look stretched across his well-aged face. "John said they were passing through Colorado and should be in Wyoming soon. They'll be here in about eight, eight and a half hours. That's if neither of 'em has to take a piss break." He walked closer to the bed and stood next to the psychic woman, "How're you doing son?"

"He's cold," Missouri translated, and then leaned over to move the last barrier between her and what she needed to see.

She lifted his shirt only as much as she had to, and didn't touch his ridiculous smiley-face shorts at all. She didn't even allow that possibility to enter her mind, acutely aware of how sensitive the child was to being touched.

Missouri and Bobby surveyed the mark on his hip, the plan black pentagram that had appeared the same night the 'parasite was burned.' The skin around the symbol was red and angry, as if he'd scratched it until it was raw, but they both knew he hadn't. The swelling spread equal on each side and if they leaned closer and squinted they could make out light patterns of darker flesh that knotted together in a Celtic pattern.

"Those are the next marks he'll have," Missouri explained in awe. She wasn't a mage herself, but the man that would be meeting them had a set of his own markings that she'd seen only once. They had been in the pattern of vines and ivy leaves that stretched across the back of his shoulder blades. He had told her that the layout was meaningful to his people, but she hadn't seen it. This one though, the two crescent moons that would become darker as the day passed were very familiar; it was the symbol of the Goddess.

"Is he gonna have any more of these little episodes," he asked, saying 'little' with all of the sarcasm he had ever possessed. Internally he was freaking out as much as any parent could and cried right along with his child, and the hunter in him couldn't wait until it was over so he could dive into research.

"Not exactly like this," she explained, "however many additions to the symbols he already has will be determined by his own level of power, so I'll say he'll have quite. None of them should hurt his bad though." She pulled Harley's shirt back down and took a seat at the very edge of the bed. Her hand moved upwards until all Harley could see was the palm of her dark hand. He felt her thoughts press against his, more assertive than before, and he soon fell back into a painless sleep.

Eight hours later the magic child's eyes snapped open as a familiar presence entered his range of awareness. John and Dean had made it back, and in the time they said they would. Harley could barely lift his own eye lids or form a coherent thought, and he thought he might start crying at any moment, but their return was a spark of relief.

Soon after he felt their arrival he heard the familiar roar of the Impala, listening as it grew silent, and heard every noise as Dean almost slammed the car door shut and made a bee-line for where Harley lay. John was hot on his tail, but still exercised some amount of self control and stopped to talk to Bobby, who had thrown himself into research to keep his stress down.

Dean didn't stop until his reached the very edge of the bed and he stopped to stare at Missouri, who sat vigilantly at his bedside, and then demanded, "give him back his blankets!" because they were _his_ blankets.

"He's not that kind of cold, Dean," Missouri tried to explain, but the only other shakes that a person got like that were those of detox and Harley certainly wasn't addicted to anything. Well, anything but caffeine. "His," she paused as Harley sent her an alarmed thought, "energy is breaking down all of his control and telling his body that it's cold and in pain."

"Pain?" Dean echoed completely bypassing the fact that she knew his name but he didn't remember her. "He's in pain? Do something!" he nearly screamed.

"Shhhh," the effort it took only to 'shush' the immature and frantic hunter put a strain on him and he had to struggle to form a coherent thought to send to Missouri, '_Want hold_.'

"I don't understand child," the woman replied, "You want hold of what?" She then spared a glance at Dean who was trying to rein himself in, and caught sight of what Harley could have been talking about. "You want him to be closer," she received an affirmative, "you don't want no one else touching you," another mental nod, "but Dean," and she received a third confirmation. "Oooh," and she suddenly realized why it was Dean that could be close while a woman's touch sent him into a panic.

"It's not like that lady," Dean said defensively, but he was still so overly concerned for his little friend that he couldn't even muster up enough awareness to blush. Instead he crawled along Harley's side of the bed, he didn't get close enough to cuddle, but he lay on his stomach and turned his head to look at the kid and when he saw pitiful green eyes he laid a hand against his messy hair. Almost instantly the pressure of Harley's twitching calmed somewhat.

"I know you don't remember me Dean," Missouri said while watching the interaction, "but you'll still address me right. Now, my name is Missouri Mosley and I'm a friend of your fathers."

"Right," the hunter replied passively, "so you obviously know why he's shaking less, what the hell is up with that?"

"Language," she chastised first, "and to know why he's relieved you need to know what you are, Dean."

"Oh yeah?" he asked in reply, and then in a mocking tone "and what am I?"

"You're a vessel, child," Missouri replied bluntly, but she went on to explain, "You are one of the very few human's who as the ability to hold more than a single soul in their body. I suspect Sam is one too." Like a deer in headlights Dean tensed up at the mention of his brother. Missouri was kind enough to ignore that small, rather important detail and did her best to keep out of his thoughts, "Now he's shaking because his energy is too much for his body to handle. In his case it's because of his Moonsickness, what he got for breaking his connection with the moon last month before he was supposed to. His energy can't just disappear so it needed somewhere to go, and since you have the room inside of yourself that's where it's been collecting."

"So he's using me as his energy container?" Dean reiterated in his own, crude words.

Just as soon as the hunter had said 'using,' Harley's tormented mind went on overdrive and he pulled his awareness away from Missouri and directed it at Dean. As soon as he felt the briefest touch of a mind he began thinking '_not using, never using, didn't know_,' and then went to say sorry as many times as he could think it.

Dean's look of shock would have been amusing if it were any other time but Harley couldn't concentrate on that so much as he continued to plead for forgiveness. "Damn kid," he said softly, "I'm surprised you have any brain power left. If I were where as you are now I probably would have just conked out."

"He's talking to you?" Missouri asked. She felt the loss of Harley's presence in her mind and had thought he just couldn't exert enough energy and had passed out. She had severely underestimated the amount of power he had as well as his tolerance for pain.

"Yeah," Dean said fatly and then turned his attention back to the kid, "Dude, I don't mind being an energy container for now, just calm the hell down." Instantly the apologizing ceased and small mental whimpers of 'cold' began to reach him. "Well, what if you use some of that energy and stuff, like lifting stuff or bending spoons."

The idea had merit and Harley tried to consciously direct his magic in some direction, maybe to clean but all of his chores from the day before had been finished. Then he'd tried to lift the lamp on Dean's nightstand and it could only shake before his magic slipped out of his control and blew up the lightbulb instead. In surprise at the small explosion Harley threw more of his magic in that direction and the same lightbulb fixed itself just as quickly as it broke and flickered on like nothing had ever happened.

"Okay, can't do anything purposely." Dean kicked his feet in the air as he thought, and thought and thought until an hour had passed and the sun began to set. The pain Harley was feeling only increased as the light began to fade and shadows began to form in the corner of the room. "Well, what if I use some of the energy to empty out what I already have so that I can take more in?"

"That's not possible Dean," Missouri said miserably, "I wish you could but your body doesn't have the proper channels to handle that kind of energy. If you tried it would shred your blood vessels and you would bleed internally until you died." She had said it so casually and then intercepted the next question before it could even leave Dean's mouth, "and even if I could absorb any amount of his energy we're not compatible in that way. If I didn't bleed out then I would likely loose my mind."

Then the door bell rang, but neither of them moved from Harley's side. They could hear though that John had stood from where he was seated in the library and stopped across the hardwood floors to yank the front door open in obvious irritation. He'd been explained all that was going on as well and after he got over the upset feeling of his son housing magic, had just been overall frustrated that Harley was in pain and there was nothing no one could o about it.

They heard a deep voice respond to John's caustic tone and John shout for Bobby. Dean wondered if he would have to leave Harley's side but no more shouting could he heard so he sunk back into the mattress and moved his hand a little so it didn't fall asleep but didn't remove it completely from the kid's head.

Nearly twenty minutes after the bell rang the voices stopped and three men made their way upstairs and into the small room. The man that had joined their little posse was taller and lankier than any they'd seen before. He almost didn't look human, and upon further inspection realized that he wasn't. Humans normally didn't go around with pointy ears, not unless they were at some sort of nerd convention or it was Halloween.

The unknown man's golden eyes scanned the scene before him and then sneered. Even before he could speak Dean had drawn the gun from its hiding place under his shirt and pointed it at the offender. "You say anything mean to this kid and I'll smear your guts across the room." The same golden eyes widened in shock at the gall of the young man in front of him.

"I have simply found the runes he has chosen to draw to be lacking in finesse," the man's smooth voice washed over them, and just as soon as he began speaking Harley's shaking got worse so Dean cocked the gun. The white haired, golden eyed, _non-human_ in the room raised both of his hands and said in a voice that was infinitely less alluring, "I mean no harm, I merely asked the wind to carry my voice. I had not realized his sickness was so bad."

'_Who?_' Harley asked Dean, not being able to turn to see. He had felt the effects of the man's voice though and the magic that the wind had carried stirred his own to cause him more discomfort.

"Yeah, who the hell are you?" Dean reiterated rudely. The three human adults were already used to the young hunter's rather unique way of translating; as if he were only repeating something that was already said but no one else had heard it, so it sounded a little off.

"I am Lolanillel of Boreal Forest," then before the human could continue with his rude questions, "I am an elf."

"A Canadian elf?" he echoed, his voice full of unconcealed amusement. From behind Lolanillel he could see Bobby roll his eyes and then glare at John, so he could only assume his father had asked that very same thing.

"Yes," the elf seethed, "and I am here to perform the ritual for that child so that he will not die when his _magus substantia_ reaches its highest point."

"Oh," Dean said simply, and the elf was overcome with the feeling that he had just been accepted, no further questions necessary. No one moved for several moments; the adults already knew the ritual couldn't start for several more hours, that was what took John and Bobby so long to get from the front door to upstairs, and Missouri had previous knowledge of what was going on. "So get with the hoodoo then Legolas," Dean demanded once his patience ran out.

The elf in return rolled his eyes, thinking that it would be a very long night unless that human learned to keep his mouth shut. Then, looking at Dean closely, his hand rested in the mess that was the child mage's hair, all of his body language screaming concern. Even the gun that was still loosely held in his hand was there to protect, so maybe the human child wasn't as useless as he thought, but that probably wouldn't keep him from being a pest.

**Bonus POV**

Gred and Forge wished they had drawn more interesting lots in their 'Find Harry's Things' scavenger hunt. The game was their idea so why couldn't they have a little fun too. Neville got to sneak into the Hufflepuff girls' dormitory (how Harry had managed to get in there was still a mystery), Hermione had gotten to look behind the illusion in the great hall because one of the things on the list was 'blue trunk, very top of the Great Hall.' Even Snape had a more interesting clue then them; at least he got to dig up a muggle woman's garden.

Not them though, oh no. The ginger twins were stuck with 'Just ask Fawkes.' Like a giant bloody bird was going to be of any help. It wasn't like it would be great fun getting to the flamboyant chicken anyway, because they had managed to break into the Headmasters Office first term of their very first year. If listing random confections until they got the right one could be considered 'breaking in.'

They complained to themselves from the entrance at Honeydukes all the way the Fawkes' own golden perch. "Harry has asked us to retrieve whatever it is he's given you to hold for him," both twins said in tandem with the same uninterested tone. Fawkes made not a move, "Will you please," one tried again, "give us what it was that Harry asked you to hold?" The bird didn't move.

One twin, they might think it was kind of George on a Tuesday and every other Saturday, broke sync and turned to stomp his foot in a very Sirius manner. "Damn," he swore, "it's a riddle."

"Just ask Fawkes," Fred but always George on alternate Thursdays of months that began with the letter 'J,' so that he could claim to be 'Jorge' instead, repeated. "Ask you what?" he said directly to the bird in question, who simply pooped in response.

Fred who was never George on alternate Thursdays of months that began with the letter 'J,' turned back to his heterosexual life partner and tilted his head to the side, "ask him for shite?"

"Don't ask him for shite," the other ordered, maybe he was Gred that day but he couldn't seem to remember, "what in Merlin's name would we do with Phoenix crap anyway?" he asked in return.

Forge who was always not Forge on Mondays when there was no chocolate shrugged as he did not have a clue, "I'm sure there are some magical properties of Phoenix dookie, if anything it might be flame retardant."

"Yeah," Forge who was always Forge on Mondays when there was no chocolate challenged, "what if it's extra flammable?" He didn't even have to wait for a response and blinked at his own words, "OH, it would explode!"

So the Weasley twins each turned left while the other turned right before turning right when the other turned left, looking for something in which they could carry Phoenix droppings. It didn't take them long to spot a bowl within the piles of shiny things the Headmaster kept, just the right size to hide within their sleeves but big enough to get a decent sample. One tilted the golden stand, dislodging the bird without a second thought, and the other used a piece of scratch parchment to scrap some poo into the silver bowl they were temporarily liberating.

"Hey brother," Gred who might or might not change his name to Forge in the next two minutes, when the other asked what the hell he wanted now he contemplated something for a moment, "do you think maybe by writing 'Just Ask Fawkes,' he might have meant Guido Fawkes' portrait on the third floor that leads to the caved in corridor?"

"That is an excellent question, brother," Forge who would become Gred soon said in a calm voice, as if he'd already thought of it when they both knew he hadn't. Before he scraped the last bit of white goo into the _borrowed_ bowl he said "but now we have some guano to show this Guido."

They laughed at their own bad joke but neither twin was so upset about getting one of the 'boring,' tips off of Harry's List of Not-Lost Things. Poop just seemed to be uplifting that way.

* * *

**To Those Who Have Just Read:**

…and it's Beta'd! One again I bow to Babe Myne's superior grammar and spelling!

Lately I've been putting a thought of thought into what music I listen to while writing, so I figured I would ask readers what their fav songs are for the moment. I really like 'Set Fire to the Third Bar,' by Snow Patrol for now…it'll change it a few minutes and I"ll have a new favorite song, but –shrugs-.

Like the reviews a lot,

Alzipher

_P.S._ –cough- so I got pressured into getting this twitter account…thing. I'll be using it to post lewd comments, teasers for this story, and talk to some of the other authors like She Who Cannot Be Turned. If you're interested, and it's totally okay if you're not (I wish I weren't) my username is Ashrwyn (Alzipher was taken! Can you believe that? I can…because I saw the 'not available' message). Much thanks –Al


	13. Chapter 13

**To the Masses:** First I have to say is that this chapter will be reposted when my beta gets back to me. I'm not known for being a particularly patient person and I'm not sure when or if the dearest beta replies. I've also been working on going through and correcting a lot of mistakes in previous chapters, but I'll announce when I repost those. Nothing really significant should change, except I'll finally get around to correcting all of the mistakes in the first chapter.

As for the dhh contest, I do have the winners….I just don't know where I wrote them down. I did get four written entries and one drawing. If anyone else is looking to submit something I'll still take it and factor it in with the other results. There in a green spiral notebook mixed in with all of those other colorful spiral notebooks piled behind my chair.

To Ireadtomuch: I'm sorry I didn't reply to your review personally, I had wanted to get this chapter posted as soon as possible to show you how much I appreciate your words, but as you can see it took a little while to get it finished. I'll tell you now though; thank you. There was so much more I wanted to say, but it's all so mixed up and hard to phrase. I'd like to just give you a big, imaginary, cyber hug and to tell you that you're strong and you're awesome –no matter what anyone else says.

* * *

**Chapter 13**

_'You can always count on Americans to do the right thing - after they've tried everything else.' – Sir Winston Churchill_

Dean carried Harley's light weight out of the room, down the stairs, and outside into the cold night air. He noticed the body in his arms shaking, more than it had been, and fought the instinct to tighten his grip. At this point it was hurting the kid to even think in complete sentences, and Dean knew that even a hitch in his step would cause more harm.

He got outside where everyone else was waiting. Missouri Mosely held a thick white candle in one hand, using it to light their way. She couldn't participate in the ritual, the elf had said, because her mental waves interfered with the power of the barrier they needed to create –and so she had conceded to stand in the middle of a perfectly drawn salt and candle circle.

He passed his dad next, taking note of the classic Marine blank expression. He was in unfamiliar territory and was keeping a keen watch and taking mental notes as he did. Dean seriously doubted they'd see any sort of elf ritual for a human psychic ever again, but it was good to know. Then his father looked up and met Dean's eyes, and that was enough to convey a simple message; if this plan even smelled like it would go south they were going to kick some major ass –Winchester style.

Bobby was last, looking like his father did that time he was nine and broke his leg jumping off of the top of a Motel 8. Pissed, looking for a fight, and down right terrified. He wanted to be the one holding his kid, no matter how new Harley was to the scene. He wanted to know what the hell was going on, every single last detail, and he just wanted it to be over. He couldn't feel the pain Harley was, even vicariously, but it hurt to see someone in such a state –especially a kid who was his responsibility, and even more so because he was plagued by a Hunters guilt. If this went badly it would mean he let down two members of his family.

Then Dean reached the circle of salt and blood and runes. In the light of the scattered candles he could see some of the stones Harley kept and he could see some of the silver blades that had been placed like fence posts. With only a single nod to Lolanillel, Dean stepped over the line and into that circle. He walked the ten foot radius and looked down at the pile of leaves and other smelly stuff.

He didn't want to trust this non-human –this elf, but what other choice was there?

Dean looked down at the bundle in his arms; Harley in one of his old over-sized band shirts and smiley face boxers, his long legs and arms bare to the cold wind. He still had his mental connection and tried to send soothing thoughts, but Dean didn't know anything about being physic so he didn't know if Harley was getting any of them. "We'll get you fixed up, and you'll be bitching at me again in no time. I'll even make a mess in the kitchen so you'll have something to clean," he meant to be encouraging, but the half a thought in reply felt more like a scolding.

With one last look Dean bent over and spilled Harley's mass onto the next of leaves and walked backwards until he stood outside of the circle. He didn't trust the Canadian elf enough to look away, and he knew his back was being watched by his dad so he just stared.

He kept on staring as Lolanillel walked into the circle and knelt down by Harley's shivering body. He saw the elf whisper things he couldn't hear but the shivering had lessened somewhat, and then the elf was moving too fast for Dean's eyes to catch, in an effort to get out of that giant ass circle he had spent the last hour creating in Bobby Singer's salvage yard.

"It's time," he said as he stood between John and Bobby. His posture was rigid and Dean could see slight tell in the way he stood that let him know the elf was just as nervous.

Then the elf didn't seem to matter much, because the moon was high and Harley started to honest-to-god glow. After a few seconds it wasn't even just him, but the air around him had started to light up and seem to vibrate. Soon enough the whole circle was full of light as if it were daytime and grass started to grow, flowers started to bloom. The pillars of crushed cars that surrounded them all started to change, the rust was disappearing, and then the new grass started to spread outside of the circle as well.

"Is that supposed to be happening?" Dean asked loudly, but he couldn't hear the answer that Lolanillel was providing. Something else had his attention, something otherworldly.

Harley was still in his mind, could still project things, and as the power had flooded outwards he hurt less and could focus. What had stopped him from hearing the answer to his question was actually what Harley projected next.

Mixed in with the pain and the confusion were images that started to flash before his eyes. He recognized California by the taste in the air and the feeling of excitement he associated with the state. He could see the campus next, like he was actually staring in the parking lot.

A figure moved in his peripheral, and he turned his head to evaluate the shadows. His instincts as a hunter were kicked into high gear and he fought against an invisible source to move his feet, and was unsuccessful. Moments later the image changed and Dean's gun was in hand, the smooth ivory was cool against his palm.

There Sammy was, sitting behind a shitty old desk hunched over a book that could make Dean's head hurt just by being in the same room. The wind had started to whisper, Dean had a hard time tearing his eyes away from his baby brother, but he needed to look for the source. It sounded like Harley, sort of, and he looked around for the young boy.

Instead of seeing the short, slightly malnourished kid who hogged his blankets the location changed again. This time he didn't recognize anything, not the wooden floors and walls, not the rickety furniture, or the handmade linens. He took in all he could of the room, including the awkward looking word bench and the line of bubbling cauldrons. Then a woman, monster, thing bolted through the door and began looking underneath and around everything. He knew she wasn't human though, by the smooth bone that sprouted from her temple and wound their way around her head like giant ram horns. Her eyes golden eyes were wide and full of fear as she looked through him and continued searching. She'd been shouting too, but Dean couldn't understand a word of what she'd been saying so it couldn't have been English.

"What the hell's going on?" Dean shouted and everything around him paused like he was standing in the middle of a movie. The woman with horns then blinked out of the room, like magic.

"It's a vision," Harley's voice rang in his ears like he was in his head, or the other way around.

"What's the rest then?" the hunter wanted to know and the world around him spun into motion.

There was a child, one with black hair –like that woman's, and little horns that had only being to penetrate the skin. He was so tiny, dressed in little blue pajama's and clutching a knitted afghan. A thick black color hung around his tiny neck, supported only by his equally as tiny shoulders. His vibrant pink iris' stared into Dean's own eyes, and his little mouth opened to beg "_Ayúdeme_." _Help Me_, a voice whispered.

Just as soon as the child spoke his eyes turned dull, the bright pink faded into a dull shade that Dean thought belonged on a grandmother's drapes and not even within a hundred miles of the horned child. _Ayúdeme_, the small voice haunted him.

"Yes," Dean said to no one in particular, but he knew what needed to be done. Somewhere in the vision he knew his orders were clear; go to California and rescue a child that was obvious not-human from that blank hunk of metal around his neck. It was like any other case, really.

"It's not that simple, Winchester," Harley's voice chastised. "I think the child was sent to hurt your brother, why else would the child show him to us?"

"You mean to tell me it was the kid with a serious case of pink eye that showed all that mental mumbo-jumbo to you." He didn't bother to ask how he could see it, because he knew it was all Harley's fault for not pulling out of his head earlier. Also, no –he didn't care if Harley heard that last thought or not.

"Yes," Harley stressed, "now think harder. What are the chances either of us will be let out of John and Bobby's sight not enough to get to California and save a non-human child from killing your brother?"

Naturally the answer was "Uh, zero." Neither of them had to think much too long about that, and Harley couldn't send either of their fathers in good conscious. Missouri and Lolanillel were still there, but neither of them were hunters. At least if Dean and Harley went themselves there would be one hunter and one psychic that could possibly help track the kid. "This is going to suck," Dean said and sighed as if the weight of the entire world were on his broad shoulders.

"Yeah," Harley agreed, "but we'll save your brother and a defenseless child without having to worry that your father or mine will kill him."

"It's weird, having a conversation in your head while your body is literally exploding," Dean offered a few moments later, shuffling his feet against the ground while gazing around. Only a second later he found himself staring at the concerned face of an elf he didn't trust, and his eyes narrowed in a glare.

"It seems your mind was pulled into the field of energy," Lolanillel diagnosed with curiosity burning in his eyes and a thoughtful finger tapping his pale chin.

"What's so interesting, Tree-Hugger?" Dean probed, and instantly Lolanille's eyes narrowed. He apparently couldn't find the humor in a little name calling, but that wasn't Dean's problem.

Dean's problem was actually the warm body that was floating in the middle of a nice, spring field that had sprouted in the middle of Bobby Singer's Salvage Yard. Yeah, Dean wanted to know how he was going to explain that one to the customers –especially the Hunters.

The rest of the power seemed to have dimmed considerably, at least the metal wasn't glowing and the energy wasn't doing its best impression of a blazing sun in the middle of the night. Silver blades still stuck out of the ground where the elf had placed them, but they were covered in moss and somebody was going to have a bitching time getting them spotless again. The salt and the runes were all covered with grass and, in some places, flowers. The stones and candles that were apparently very important were floating in the air and revolving around Harley's suspended form, a few of the flames seemed to be dancing. Finally, billow Harley where all of the dried herbs and other organic things had nestled his body were the plants that Lolanillel has piled there but alive and thriving.

"Well damn," Dean heard Bobby say from where he stood, "that sure is a lot of mojo."

"Indeed," Lolanillel agreed casually, "he does possess and unusual level of power. I fell there was an outside source that siphoned off a great deal of it, and so you would like to keep a keen eye for anyone of malicious intent."

Then he was gone. Before Dean could even blink the space that the Canadian elf had occupied was empty and his gun was once again, held in a well practiced grip as he surveyed his surroundings.

"His part in all of this is done, child you can put your gun away," Missouri's voice broke out over the deafening silence.

Dean paid her enough attention to have heard her words but he didn't put his gun away. Instead he surveyed the surroundings while he made his way towards the center of the field; grass flattened under his feat and tickled the hem of his pants. There was a conscious understanding that there was something lurking amongst the metal and it irked him badly, so no –the gun would stay out.

The adults, that is to say Bobby, John, and Missouri were close behind him. They each had their own prerogatives and concerns, which was fine with Dean as he only really had one goal in mind.

When he reached Harley's side he simply plucked the boy out of the air and held him tightly in his arms. He was no longer shaking, which was a good sign, and the soft and tired thoughts that were washing over Dean's mind held no traces of pain. Slowly a thin arm, the one with the long scar running down his forearm wrapped around his shoulders and he tried to sit up just a little in Dean's arms.

"You should rest," he whispered, "I'll get everything ready." Then as soon as Missouri neared he shoved those thoughts into the back of his mind and concentrated on the small person in his arms. Then the overprotective fathers descended up on them and there would be no such thing as privacy until John and Bobby were sure, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that their boys were alright.

Three hours by Dean's count, three long and annoying hours was how long it took for the old men to quick their mother henning and retreat to their respective sleeping places. All the while Harley had been poked and prodded, his own frustration was right there on the edge of Dean's own ill-tempered thoughts.

They had literally spent an hour playing word association games while John and Bobby made salt rings, heated leftovers, poured over archaic texts, asked probing questions, deflected probing questions. There was also a good half an hour in between Harley's A for You are an Ass and Dean's anecdote about a big breasted blonde he'd picked up at some bar (when he couldn't think of something that began with the letter 'x') in which Missouri and Bobby argued over the nutritional qualities of refried beans and Doritos.

Harley was already exhausted from his day, and despite Dean's insistence that he could sleep, the young mage didn't want to. He was too afraid that Dean was just going to leave him in South Dakota and try to deal with the mind-controled child on his own. Dean had just wanted everyone to shut the hell up so him and the kid could go to some life-saving and get some damn sleep. Because while his day hadn't been as eventful as Harley's, he'd still spent the last two days driving from Arizona to South Dakota and napping every once in a while in the passenger seat of his own car was not good sleep.

Finally the three self appointed body guards did retreat to their sleeping places. Missouri had taken over Dean's dad's guest room while John had been banished to the couch. Bobby had hauled himself in his room with several large books, and while neither Dean or Harley were sure if he was really sleeping it wouldn't matter if he was too immersed in what he was researching.

Dean sat cross-legged on the bed with Harley in his lap and he watched as drawers began to open and shut, objects floated and resized, and they all somehow fit in the backpack that Harley had picked out for school. He was a bit uncomfortable with the blatant show of power, but said nothing because at least that meant he didn't have to pack anything.

When Dean had a mental list of everything that went into the bag and was satisfied he stood up and wrapped Harley in the smaller quilt, and made his way to the window. They'd communicated a mutual understanding that no one was going to get past John, awesome abilities or not, and the window was the safest bet.

Harley was physically tired, but he had enough energy to lower them both to the ground safely, from the second floor. Dean sort of enjoyed the sensation of walking down invisible stares and it also made him very uncomfortable, but it was a necessity if him and Harley were going to get out of South Dakota before either of their dad's figured out what was up.

There was a moment where Dean just stared at the Impala and considered leaving it behind, because his father knew he'd have it and it was an easy way to track him down. Harley also made a great point that if they took the Impala that's what the men would be looking for, and he could always disguise it with some illusion later on. Dean was a bit skeptical about whether or not that would actually work, but he didn't ever think that someone could fit two weeks worth of clothes and half of his weapons collection in a single bag before either.

Harley claimed to have muffled the sounds of the Impala with his special brand of physic abilities, which Dean wasn't sure actually had a limit, while he started up the engine and they started their very long journey to California.

Dean wasn't likely to every admit it, but the only thing that kept him awake for the first ten hours was the constant drum of thought that crept at the edge of his own mind. Harley had yet to retract whatever connection he'd made, and Dean hadn't felt like asking him to. The kid's thoughts were actually kind of soothing, to a point, and he knew it kept Harley calm and reassured to monitor Dean's every intention.

When they did reach the ten hour mark Harley was awake again, though still not talking aloud, and Dean felt that they were far enough away that they could pull over and get some sleep before the last sixteen hours of their drive. Dean got them a room at a decent looking hotel while Harley rooted around in his bag for pants and shoes. He hadn't changed his clothes at all since he'd gotten ready for bed the night before last.

His state of undress hadn't bothered him until they'd pulled into a gas station just outside of Idaho. Some really creepy attendant had leered at him from where he sat in the passenger seat of Dean's Impala (cleverly disguised as a blue Impala). Dean had returned as soon as he felt a bit of panic and glared for all he was worth, and that apparently was a lot. The attendant had backed off but the damage had already been done; Harley was thoroughly freaked out and didn't want to leave his cocoon for anything. Dean had brought him water and snacks and he simply magiced away anything filling his bladder.

Dean hadn't mentioned his behavior and didn't plan to; he only leant his silent support. He kept the kid full of carbs and sodas, even though he knew that rationally –in the back of his mind that those things weren't healthy, but maybe if he could get Harley to gain some weight in the week or so they were away Bobby wouldn't shoot him on sight.

He booked a nice hotel, because it wasn't like the run down motels the Winchesters were known for frequenting but an upscale hotels would set off red flags. Not to mention; taking a fourteen year old boy into an upscale hotel even registered on his radar of all things inappropriate and creepy.

He left Harley in the car to collect his thoughts, unwrap himself from his quilt cocoon, and put some pants on. He'd seen the sleaze ball at one of the gas stations just outside of Wyoming giving Harley the one-two stare. No one wanted to be at the end of a nasty pedophile's gaze, especially one with rotten teeth and a mullet. He shuffled his credit cards and chose the one on the top, Dexter Chirkof, son of Russian businessman Vlad Chirkof.

Dear Dexter paid for a room with double beds and Dean returned to Harley, so that he could park his newly blued impala and they could retrieve their one bag and whatever weapons they could smuggle in.

Half a day later both Dean and Harley were rested, as well as either of them would admit. Of course that meant they no longer looked like the living dead, only a little worn out.

There wasn't a reason to get two separate beds, because they'd shared one at Bobby's and physical closeness was partially went kept the moving. Harley was tired and worn. The magic rode his body, and while there were no physical manifestations of the night before he was still tired and a little sore. Saving the child with the horns and the pink eyes felt natural, he needed to save the child. It would keep his blood pumping until the very end and they he knew he would get the must needed rest.

Dean was tired, but he was used to that. His wounds from the last hunt were minimal, just some bruising along his torso that as already healing and was yellow around the edges. What freaked him out half way to Friday was the kid, the large pink eyes and the freaking horns. _Horns_, and that meant _not human. _

Talking to snakes, he could deal with. Different types of werewolves, Goblins that run banks, people who actually buy creature blood. Yeah, he could deal with all that weird shit. Little kids with big eyes that need rescuing; Dean was down with that. Meeting the hot moms of those little kids? Hell yeah. The fact that the kid that needed his help had horns, that he wasn't human, that was the part Dean was having trouble with.

"It doesn't make you a bad person," Harley said rather abruptly, startling Dean out of his deep thinking. Harley was standing in front of the mirror examining himself without a hint of narcissism, but more like he was contemplating change. He surveyed Dean's reflection, watching the older man hunch over the coffee table while he cleaned his weapons. "Wanting to rescue the boy, human though he may not be, does not make you a bad person. It just makes you less racist."

"Racist?" Dean echoed with disbelief. No one had accused him of that before. "Dude, in what way am I racist?"

"You're ready to believe that this child will grow up to be a killer, just because he's not human. I don't have to be in your thoughts to see that. You saw his mother, just the same as I did. She looked like any other mother, scared out of her mind because she couldn't find her baby. Admittedly there will be differences in the way we think, but just because he's a different race than us doesn't mean he's evil." Harley hadn't spoken that much since their last rather personal talk over midnight pie. And just like the werewolves and the goblins, his words rang true. "I'm not telling you that he wouldn't be capable; just as a human like you or I can make our choices to kill or not to, so can he. So can a werewolf or a vampire. They're creatures capable of complex thought that exceeds beyond the need for food, shelter, and reproduction." Harley paused for a moment, realizing he was working himself into his own version of a Hermione-like rant. "My point is still just that you're not a bad person for wanting to save him, in fact you may be stronger for it."

"Dude," Dean's tone was full of amused understanding and thanks, "you're almost as bad as Sammy."

"Your brother" Harley turned around and asked. Dean wasn't looking towards him though, focusing instead on his guns. "What's he like?"

It took a long moment for Dean to answer, so long in fact that Harley wasn't sure he'd heard the question at all. "Sort of like you, I guess," he began slowly, "he likes his books and research, knowing all the facts before rushing into a situation. He's stubborn like dad; they used to argue all the time for it. He always wanted to go to college and dad always just assumed he'd join the family business. Hell a' girly. He used to always asked how I felt, how dad was feeling, if we wanted to talk about it, why we didn't want to talk about it."

"What's it?" the younger boy asked. He could feel a bit of the tension leaving Dean's mind as he talked, like some of his deeper emotions were unraveling and he could start making sense of them.

"You know, doing what we do. Killing things that used to be human, killing things that still look human, killing things that kill other things. It gets to you after a while, and sometimes there's no payoff. Sometimes we're chased out of town on gun point because someone didn't appreciate the work we did," he sounded amused, like he was remembering something fondly. Harley made a note to ask him later why they had gotten chased away. It seemed very likely as if it would be John's fault.

Harley stopped asking questions then and turned back to the mirror. Dean had said John and Bobby were good and tracking, and Harley knew rationally what all of those phones attached to the kitchen wall were for (Dean had explained all about the FBI, CIA, and so on). He felt it was safe to say the government would be on their tails as well, and he could disguise everything from Dean and himself to the Impala if he had to. It was just a matter of what looked the least ridiculous, didn't attract too much attention by being themselves, butt didn't put them so far under the radar that they attracted attention for that too.

He hemmed and hawed a little more, then decided on a course for them both. He didn't want to (he really, really didn't want to), but if John and Bobby were going to look for a grown man and teenage boy they might as well stop being that. Which meant wearing a skirt, and if that would get them all the way to California with the guarantee of not being stopped he was all for it. So Harley dressed in the skirt and leggings, traded the tank top for another t-shirt and stole Dean's leather jacket. He changed the colors from green to hot pink and light blue, he changed his own hair color from dark brown to a platinum blond with just the wave of his hand and made it longer, and finally he slid a pair of sunglasses on.

"How do I look?" he asked Dean, who could only stare at the blatant use of power. "I think it's different enough that I won't be stopped for looking like…well, myself."

"Like a girl," Dean said first, and then second, "is that my jacket?" When Harley nodded once, but didn't seem to really care Dean sighed, "man, first my shirt and then my jacket. Next you'll be wearing my pants."

"I could resize them," Harley interrupted, "but if I take your pants, what does that leave you? We can't have you walking around in your skivvies." While he was talking his hands fluttered through the air, the tips of his fingers glowed only slightly as he lightened Dean's hair and skin and turned his eyes blue. Black lines sprouted from a small point on his neck and started curving around his collar bone and down his arms, color blossomed next. When he was done it had only been a few seconds, but he looked like a completely different person. Harley smirked in triumph and turned back to the mirror.

"I think I know that look," Dean said suspiciously, when he turned back to his guns to finish reassembling them he jerked in shock. "Dude, I had a nice tan going on," there was a pause as his eyes evaluated the artificial art, "these wash off right? Because I can't be having obvious identifiable features."

Harley let out an amused laugh and turned back to the mirror, evaluating his disguise and double checking it for any flaws. "Yes," he said finally, "I'll remove them when we're done with this case."

He said 'Case' like they were some kind of law enforcement, not 'Hunt' like they were gunning down some jeepers-creeper thing, Dean thought. He weighed the words in his mind and decided after a moment that he kind of liked the sound of it. They had a case, they were going to rescue a kid and return him to his smoking hot Mexican mama. That sounded pretty good to the young Hunter.

**Bonus**

He woke up in the middle of a cold place, surrounded by meaningful rocks; headstones, his mind supplied. The sun was high above him, so it was around noon, and he was hungry. Those were the only things he could readily think, everything else just seemed like it was on the outside of castle wall.

All about who he was and what he liked or didn't like, it was all on the wrong side of that wall. He couldn't even recall his own name. All he knew where those three things; he was surrounded by headstones, it was noon, and he was hungry.

That's exactly what he told the girl. She was young, but close enough to his age to make things a little awkward, blond, and pretty. Her clothes were taken care of, but worn over the years of use. So he guessed she was kind of poor, but she was nice. This girl, who introduced herself as Mary, was nice and beckoned him to follow her home.

He still had no recollection of what people called him, or even if there were people before Miss Mary. She said there must have been, but he couldn't remember so she called him Itayyel.

Itayyel was a nice name, it filled him with comfort and purpose. There was no familiarity with it, but it was nice none the less. Mary smiled as he spoke those words to her and placed a bowl of food in front of him. She apologized for not having anything heartier on hand, but he said it was fine –he couldn't remember any meal before so he was sure it would taste wonderful.

With relish Cedric Diggory, now known as Itayyel with no memories of anyone or anything before the graveyard, dug into the meager stew and participated happily in a conversation with the lovely Mary.

* * *

**To Those Who Just Read:**

It was actually the last three hundred words that took the longest to get written. I couldn't decide on a name. I was going to go with Joseph, but decided to give that part to someone else.

This chapter is also a lot shorter than I wanted it to be, but then I decided to break the case into at least three chapters instead of trying to shove everything into one.

This is me pimping other things: I've recently started working on a story that will hopefully be part of a bigger series, for the HP fandom (Sorry Supernatural fans?). It is called Combative Kin of World War III: The Llama Comprehension. It involves a very uh….neurotic version of Harry that, in his childhood learned to pick pockets, count cards, and any other underhanded method of money making to ensure his survival. That's not all the story is about though, so –shrugs- It's actually my attempt at an in-depth war story that comes off as quirky. Though I'm not so sure how well I'm doing with it so far….It should be posted sometime tomorrow or the day after. Then I'll work on a chapter of Repercussion of an Unwilling Vanguard, and circle my way back around to Breakneck Sabbatical.

Thank you to everyone who's made it this far,

Alzipher (who still likes quotes and reviews)


	14. Chapter 14

**To the Masses:** Hey, it's been a while. I didn't mean to take so long, but I'm finding it hard to create a balance between school and laziness. I promise to be better though. I don't think I'm even taking as many classes next quarter, just because three in one day –twice a week is wearing me out. Dear lord, I can't even think about all the homework I ignored to get this done. Still though, I'm sorry.

Also, to the people who left awesome reviews that I didn't respond to: I'm sorry and you're still awesome. Just to let you know, and to post this somewhere so I can find it later –the sequel will be called Viperous Drudgery. –double checks- Yup, that's what it'll be called…whenever I get around to writing it.

**Warnings:** OOC, AU, OC's, Slash, mentions of abuse, mentions of sexual abuse , -inhales-, Manipulative Dumbledore, choppy concepts, awkward sentence structures, Cunning Harry, inspires more questions and answers, underage drinking, underage smoking, cradle robbing, other illegal things, cross-dressing, erratic updates, homophones, blood, gore, confusing explanations, threesomes, and other stuff.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Supernatural or Harry Potter.

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**Chapter Fourteen**

_You may be deceived if you trust too much, but you will live in torment if you don't trust enough. –Frank Crane_

"I don't need the map," Dean insisted, pushing the paper Harley had been studying into the floor boards. "I know where we're going," he kept repeating, as if he said it enough it would actually be true.

"Yeah," Harley agreed, "we're going the wrong way." He pulled the map back up only to accidentally rip a piece of it while he was trying to smooth out the wrinkles. He ignored Dean's annoying giggle.

"We're not going the wrong way," the older man countered a moment later. Harley still wouldn't look at him, but he could hear the pout in his voice well enough.

"Look, there's a bloke that probably knows where the library is, let's just ask him?" Harley tried to bargain, pointing outside to a tall man that was loaded down with books. The pile was so extreme that they couldn't actually see his face, just an awkward bowl-cut hairstyle that reminded him of an angry cat.

"I am not asking that walking encyclopedia where the library is! I know where we're going." Dean was not staring straight ahead with such intensity that Harley was sure a girl without knickers had just bent over.

"Yeah, in a giant circle," Harley whispered to himself.

"I heard that," Dean replied gruffly, but Harley was wearing him down so a small bit of acceptance had crept into his voice.

Sam could have sworn the blond man sitting behind the wheel of his car sounded and acted just like his brother, but it couldn't be. This man was driving a blue Impala, and Dean would never ruin his car with such an unmanly shade. For a moment the college boy contemplated giving them directions, just to piss the man off, but he tripped over a crack and his books scattered across the ground.

**-Mini-Line-Break-**

Dean, disguised as Dexter Chirkof had to practically drag Harley, disguised as little Mrs. Amelia Chirkof out of the college campus library for lunch. The kid had no sense of priority, and Dean was sure that bodily nutrition was pretty high up on that list. If he wanted to survive Bobby Singer he was going to have to make sure the kid new that food was first, research was second, and that their little jaunt across the country was actually considered kidnapping.

"Just another hour," Harley was so past anger and was into in the midst of bargaining, "just an hour and I'll even pay." Though it didn't matter whose money they used, because Dean's credit cards were all fake and Harley did this thing with his mojo that turned a piece of trash into whatever money he wanted. It took them an hour or so to get everything right, from the water mark to the security strip, but once they got it down Dean was sure they wouldn't get caught. "An hour could be what it takes to find out what race he is."

"No," Dean said, and his great counter argument was "We need tamales." He pushed the smaller boy through the door lightly, with just enough strength to make it known to Harley that he was in charge at the moment –despite the younger hunter's ability to rain a storm of psychological abuse. Oddly enough, the brutal truth and straight forward chastising only boosted Dean's confidence and strengthened his role as the senior hunter. Dean was weird like that, and recognized that was how Harley showed affection and kept them both on their toes.

Instead of responding abrasively he let Dean lead him to the Impala with playful tugs and shoves. He gave a half turn, one arm was slung over his canvas bag (and several stolen books) protectively, and he gave Dean a genuinely curious look and asked "what are tamales?"

Dean's moss colored eyes bugged out of his head like Harley just asked him to drop his pants, turn his head and cough. He let out a surprised 'dude,' and picked up the pace.

Twenty minutes later the two of them were settled in a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, sitting across from one another. Dean was staring down at the table with a mixture of emotions, mostly amusement as Harley stared at the waitress intently.

"…and then you take them out of the pot and they're ready to serve," Juanita, if her name tag was correct, explained patiently. Bless her, when Harley first asked what tamales were with his soft British lilt and the expression of someone on a mission she'd thought she could get away with the basic explanation she gave every tourist. It's meat, wrapped in masa, a type of steamed dough. Then he began asking questions; what kind of meat, how do you cook it, what kind of sauce is used, what's in the sauce, where could be buy the ingredients for masa, what kind of pot did she recommend, and what other little tips could she give him? Other customers stared for sure, and some of the other waitresses as well as the man beyond the serving counter had chuckled to themselves, until they realized how serious the little hunter was.

He even took notes, much to Dean's horror. He wrote down all of his questions, the answers, and even a couple of the comments that were shouted at them during the little cooking lesson. Once again, thanks to the little old lady two tables over for recommending he serve it with some salsa verde, Dean thought. Maybe homemade tamales would also help Dean's plea when their dads caught up to them.

"I'll have a number eleven, and a bowl of _queso_," Dean ordered when the waitress turned to him with big, questioning eyes. She nodded and jotted it down dutifully before turning back to Harley with no small amount of hesitation.

He did look like he wanted to ask what _queso_ was, but Dean nudged him with his boot under the table and he snapped his mouth shut. Dean gave him a look that spoke clearly of his hunger and the threat of childish annoyance if Harley made him wait again. He only opened it again to order the same as Dean, a plat of tamales with beans and rice.

Juanita scurried away quickly and once she entered the kitchen, before the doors closed they witnessed a crowd of other waitresses closing around her –all of them chattering quickly in informal Spanish.

"Tell me you're at least going to cook some when we get home," Dean huffed playfully, reclining in his chair and giving the kid a charming smile. Harley could feel a tingle of worry, and he knew Dean was thinking about their dads –about the anger they would display to cover their worry and then the disappointment that would directed at them.

"Nope," Harley denied childishly, even though they both knew he would. He raised his nose to the air like he'd seen Malfoy do before, and then turned his head to the side. Amusement began to eclipse the worry.

They were sitting next to the large, storefront window and when he played the snob he caught sight of something surprising. Harley saw curves of blue encased by free flowing sheets of white cotton, so he turned his head further to get a better look.

At first glance this woman looked normal, ivory skin with brown hair, but it wasn't her real face.

Dean must have looked to see what suddenly caught his attention and seen the same woman he did, and Harley theorized that being a reserve tank for his magic allowed his partner to see past the woman's glamour. Automatically he strengthened the link until he could hear clear words. "_She's blue_," Dean was thinking, repeatedly while trying to figure out just what she was.

"_Yes_," Harley answered. Dean didn't flinch, so he suspected Dean was trying to project the moment he saw something odd. He and Harley were already perfecting their partnership, which was a sign that frightened both of them. However, they couldn't focus on that, Dean's hunter senses were starting to take over –and that was a very unpredictable thing. _"…I don't know_," answering the unasked question of what she was.

In fact Dean's earlier statement was true. This woman's true appearance was blue in every aspect. Her skin underneath the glamour was a medium shade, her hair was a darker blue, but it was too far away to see her eyes. She was wearing a white cotton dress, and there were three little persons dancing around her legs.

Dean was still processing, having reigned in his hunter instincts at the sight of children with an all telling "kids are off limits," just like the pink-eyed child they knew nothing about. Harley saw them for what they were, little half-of what ever their mother was and half-human. Each of them had skin and hair of similar color but in varying tones and shades, and each one of them were veiled in the same human appearance.

Then, while Harley was cooing over the youngest (a girl with little blue pigtails and a toothy smile) as she harassed her older brothers, Dean had a great idea. "_Let's ask her_," he said just as she entered the store across the street. 'Nymph's Retreat,' was what it was called, in bold white letters over a blue background.

Just then their food appeared in front of their faces, thanked to the frazzled waitress Harley had interrogated earlier. Harley thanked her happily and then inquired, "What kind of store is that?" while he pointed across the street.

"Oh," she looked at in blankly for a moment before recognition dawned, then she explained with her Spanish tinted English, "They sell Greek things; clothes, art, and jewelry mostly. The lady that owns it is real nice; she gave me a good discount on art once –it was for my mama's birthday."

"You mean the woman with the kids?" Harley asked innocently enough, but Dean knew his question and expression were measured so that he would look as well-meaning as possible. If Dean were to try that he'd just seem creepy.

"Yes, three of them," she smiled fondly as she remembered the munchkins, "and one on the way. You must have just seen her getting back from picking the babies up from school." She paused and looked at Harley with mischievous eyes, "she has a great recipe for homemade gelato." A customer from the booth behind Dean began to laugh and ended up choking on his milk shake, must to his wife's amusement.

"Awesome," Dean said and dug into his food. The waitress had just given them another excuse to wonder over there and question the woman. Not to mention, and Dean wouldn't under penalty of Wrath, he might pick up one of those tunics for the smaller hunter.

"_No_," the word reverberated through his head and all the pretty images he had of silky-tunic-pajamas were replaced by an angry-faced teenager holding a bat menacingly.

Oops, Dean thought, he'd have to learn how to hide private thoughts in his own private thoughts. That would be a tricky achievement. Oddly enough, he didn't even contemplate telling Harley to get the hell out of his head, like he would if there were some creepy-crawly mind reading thing. Maybe a blue tunic would look nice.

"Just finish your damn dinner," Harley said with a huff, withdrawing his mind so Dean could be alone with his private musings of tunics and his own underage self. How many years would it be until that wouldn't seem creepy to everyone outside of their collected mind.

He pulled out not only because Dean was being an immature hound-dog, but he needed to think to himself –once again reflect on the relationship he had with the older hunter, because he should be freaking out. Actually he was, he was in turmoil because he wasn't in turmoil.

Petunia had taken from him. She'd dealt blows, punishments, and chores during the day. She hurt him on some physical level, but beyond were countless emotional injuries. It's what he kept to himself even when his roommates saw the shadows of old scars along his shoulders, just when they got too close.

The hurt his aunt caused him felt obvious, like it was printed on his face in Gryffindor red and that was reason enough to keep his distance. He didn't date like the rest of his peers; he didn't flirt with girls or boys or give them reason to know him for who he really was. He let them know him for who they thought he was, and because of that very few people actually had a clue.

Dean had a clue. Dean had a lot of clues of who he really was, all of them delivered with a sharp tongue or piercing green eyes –like a broken beer bottle illuminated in fresh daylight. He didn't react with disgust like his aunt or uncle or cousin did. He took all that was dealt to him and he built himself up with it. Every biting remark was followed by an automatic assimilation to the facts and a certain amusement that was becoming tired over time. It was as if Dean was waiting for the dam of anger to break and another emotion flood down upon him.

Dean gave to Harry; emotional support as well as tangible gifts. He gave him just enough space to function on his own, but he was only an arms length away. He pushed him to pick out little things wherever they stopped, encouraged him to ask for things, and for some reason he kept shoving food in his way. Usually it was just junk food, but Harley was sure it was the healthiest preprocessed snakes the older hunter could find. Despite the giving and giving of their relationship Harley didn't feel like he tolerated Dean's perverted mind and flirtations because of some sick sense of reciprocity.

There was something bigger going on between the two of them, and whatever it was it didn't trigger any of his deepest nightmares. Harley reached up to touch the silver cuff on the top of his ear, remembering his promise to not wallow in his dark memories.

Dean's boot hit his foot and Harley looked up to meet the questioning eyes of his partner. He gave a genuine smile, happy in the content-ness of just sitting in a Mexican diner and enjoying new food with someone he liked well enough.

"I say we get some empanadas before we head over there," Dean suggested, flagging down their waitress.

"What's an empanada?" Harley asked, pushing magical blond and pink hair behind his ear and stared at Juanita expectantly. Juanita had earned the big tip Dean was going to leave her, and she knew it when she gave the disguised boy a wide smile.

An hour later and Harley had five new recipes, including the one for tamales. Juanita had also provided the information Harley wanted on empanadas without much prompting. The man behind Dean had a great salsa that even his reluctant wife commended, another customer had an alternative recipe for tamales (to include chicken), and the cook came around to write his how-to on enchiladas on the back of their recite. Dean felt kind of bad he was paying with his Dexter Chirkof card, but hey –at least they'd get the money, it was the creditors that were out.

"Now do you really need to learn how to make gelato?" Dean asked with amusement. He was perfectly aware they needed to talk to the blue woman, but he also knew that it was very likely Harley was more excited about his new hobby of collecting recipes. He was looking forward to the Mexican food though; it wasn't too easy to get homemade enchiladas as far north as Bobby lived.

Dean pushed the glass door open and took a quick glance of the inside before he allowed Harley to walk in, just to make sure the little shop was clear of danger.

The blue woman behind the counter caught sight of them immediately and stiffened. Harley knew she saw them for who they really were; Dean as a brunette with younger features but the hardened gaze of someone who had seen way too much evil and Harley as his scared young self –clearly not a female.

"We heard you make some awesome gelato," Dean began with a deceptive smile.

"We're just here to ask questions," Harley was far more truthful with his statement. Dean thought they should have brought badges to flash. If only he had a 'Supernatural Cop to Save Pink-Eyed Babies' badge.

"You're hunters," the woman's voice was accented with something ancient and she was very sure of what she'd said, "We haven't done anything wrong."

"We know," Harley said at the same time Dean said "You're blue." Just as the older hunter said that Harley shoved an elbow into his ribs and said with certainty, "Being blue is not a crime." Then he turned back to the woman, "we have a case in the area and we'd like to ask you some questions. Maybe you noticed something the humans didn't."

Her disposition softened just barely. "What kind of things?" she asked.

Dean and Harley approached the counter so that their interview would be private, more so than the empty store front could provide if they continued talking loudly to one another. Dean spoke first.

"There would have been an unusual spike in energy the night before last," at least that's how Harley explained the 'sensitive' people would have experienced his moonsickness. The woman's eyes widened a bit in surprise, as if she didn't expect a human to notice. They weren't about to tell her the reason for the spike, but Harley believed that the message the pink-eyed child sent would have an energy spike of its own.

"Yes," she said heavily, with a wild sort of excitement in her sea-foam eyes. "Yes, I don't think I'll ever forget it."

Harley blushed before he got back to business, "We think there was spike of a different kind, one that happened on the same night, and it would have been local."

"You're hunters," the woman said again, this time as if it explained why she wouldn't answer their question. There was a certain worried quality in her expression and she glanced at the door to the back room, where they could hear her children playing.

"We're not going to kill the kid," Dean replied with no small amount of anger and hurt. "We just want to return him to his mother before some worse people get wind of him."

She sighed, and they knew they had her. "There's been word of a cucuy child wondering around this side of the border," she admitted reluctantly. "I talked with a peri from Chinatown, from my Monsters Are People group; just this morning and he checked with a cousin that attends the University. There is a little one running around the campus. Understand though, it's highly unusual -they never cross the border."

The mental conversation between Dean and Harley had halted so they could pay better attention to her answer. They were both stumped by the knowledge of a 'Monsters Are People' support-like group, but accepted that in stride. That last statement though, she said it as if it were an absolute truth that had been disrupted.

"Why don't they cross the border?" Harley asked patiently.

She gave them an odd look, as if the question were a dumb one. Dean shuffled his feet a bit in embarrassment, he didn't like not-knowing more than he resented feeling stupid though so neither one of them retracted the question.

"The ones that survived the purge last century, they're afraid," She explained, "of everything, but especially of being discovered. A mother would not risk her baby to cross the border for anything."

"We don't think," Harley began nervously. Talks of purging and genocide always put him on edge, but Dean's comforting hand on his shoulder did help to ground his thoughts. "We don't think he's here voluntarily. We think he was kidnapped and now is being forced to track someone."

She shivered in response to that, but Dean pressed on, "is there anything more you can tell us, or anyone you think could help?" Mentally he added, "_and why are you blue?_"

"Other people would know, but they would not want Hunters at their door steps and if they didn't kill you they still wouldn't talk to you," of that she was also certain. "There's an old Greek trick I know that might be of some help." She beckoned them to follow her into the backroom and they did so solemnly.

The children were all piled near the door; they had obviously been listening much to their mother's distress. Dean wasn't sure they really understood what was going on but Harley was certain they knew more than they realized.

"You're not like us," The eldest of the children, a boy, observed while holding out a sky blue hand politely.

"Nope," Dean confirmed, taking the little guys hand and shaking it in a mutual greeting. "I'm Dean Winchester and this is my partner, Harley Singer."

"It's nice to meet you all," Harley nodded and added a smile to calm the nervous waves the mother was sending.

"These are my children; Angelos, Silas, and Marianna. I'm Alcyone," the mother introduced everyone while she searched through the old storeroom for things.

"_The daughter of a Greek God_," Harley thought quickly, and elbowed Dean just before he would open his mouth to ask if she really was. "You're Greek," he said aloud, "they're known for scrying. You wouldn't happen to know the Ladies of Scry would you?"

The question obviously caught her off guard as she paused from pulling a stone basin out of an old wooden cabinet. Her eyes widened momentarily but returned to their intended size by the time she replied, "Not personally. I'm Nymph, and the Ladies are Muse. We do have scrying in common though, and you're right –that is what I'll be using to find what we're looking for."

"What do you need from us?" Harley asked, because he couldn't just receive a gift of knowledge without something in exchange –as a mage he couldn't let that stand.

However, the laws of Nymphs had their own rules. "I cannot take money for this," she said, but she now knew him for what he really was –and instead of shock she responded with a kind glance and the nervous energy in the room disappeared almost completely. "This and a token for something in return, I can do." From her pocket she pulled out a silver medallion and handed it out to Dean.

The older hunter took it without word, though his mind was raging with questions he'd come to accept that things were done a little differently when hoodoo was involved. He placed the medallion, with an engraving of a bird –probably a Halcyon, in his coat pocket where he knew he wouldn't loose it. Just the same, he expected Harry to hand over something.

Instead the little guy turned to him and projected the question into his brain, "_I need to give her what the last person gave me._" And as far as Dean understood it, the last thing given to Harley was the truth about Dean's brother. "_I have to tell her about Sam –that if they ever need anything they can go to him and expect help_."

Yeah okay, so Dean's first reaction was 'hell no,' but this was Sammy they were talking about. If a blue Nymph woman were to show up on his door step with a human husband and three little nymphlings then Sammy would be on their case like black on his Impala –never mind that it was currently disguised as a powdery-blue imitation of his baby's true self. So instead of yelling at them all to leave his baby brother alone he took a fake FBI card from his pocket and scrawled Sam Winchester, and address to his campus apartment and his cell number (neither of which he was supposed to know, but he liked to keep tabs on the kid).

"If you run into any trouble," Dean said, handing the card over to the woman.

"Today is full of the unexpected," she said, "the Winchesters are notorious for shoot now and care never." Yeah, it sucked that they had that reputation now that Dean was trying to actually help the people he would normally kill. "I'm assured though, that should we ever need his help that he is one of the best."

"You're damn skippy," Dean agreed proudly and the children around their feet giggled at his bad word.

Alcyone walked to the middle of the storage room with the stone basin and dropped it, but it didn't quite reach the floor before in bounced in the air and began rocking as if it was floating in water. Just the same, Harley watched as she forced Hydrogen to combine with oxygen until clear water appeared in the air and spiraled down into the bowl.

"_She's a water Nymph_," Harley told his comrade the moment he realized her element, "_look_," and they both turned their attention to the small pool that Alcyone laid out before them just as her magic took wind and spiraling images started to form.

"This is who you're looking for," she said, her voice had changed –it sounded like a soft melody beyond the crash of waves against the shore.

Images in the water formed to show a little boy, just as young as they remembered. He was hidden in a small place, in a dumpster by the looks of it, where the sunlight couldn't reach him. The pink eyes that the boys remembered vividly were closed in slumber and his tiny thumb was stuck between his lips. He was most likely nocturnal then, and the most frightening thing of all was still hanging around his neck. The collar made of black metal hung there, doing harm in some way that Dean and Harley hadn't figured out.

"His name is Alejandro, his mother calls him Alej," the picture changed to the same frantic woman who had been tearing apart her home in search for her child. Only this time she seemed resigned to the fact he was no longer there, and she was packing. Resolve was clear on her face. "She's coming here."

"_We'll have to act fast_," Dean thought, "_or we'll have an angry Latina on our hands while we try to subdue the kid to get the freakin' collar off his neck_."

"_You think that thing is controlling his actions_?" Harley asked, "_It's not made of any metal I've ever seen before. I suppose it could be made out of a stone, but I won't know until we get close._"

"_If it's got a lock, I can probably pick it. If it's electric we'll have some issues though,_" Dean countered. Between their shared skills they should have no problems, they hoped.

The stone bowl fell the rest of the distance and landed loudly on the floor, water splashed around them, and the children giggled in happiness as they began playing and cleaning the puddle up.

"I'm sorry, that's all I can give you," Alcyone said while she pulled a towel from the closest shelf and handed it to one of the children.

"No, thank you," Harley insisted, "it was a help." Indeed it was. They knew that the child was still in Palo Alto, that he would strike at night, they knew his target, and they knew his mother was on her way (so they would have no trouble tracking her down). The only last unknown was the black collar that hung around Alej's neck, and who was behind it.

"Thank you," Dean followed with zero prompting. Then after a moment he seemed to recall, so he asked "do you have that recipe for homemade gelato?"

**Bonus POV**

Ginny stared at the scene that was unfolding right in front of her. All the while she kept an eye on a stack of journals wrapped in brown paper that she'd retrieved from a snake's nest just a mile into the Forbidden Forest. They were written in a language that looked like Arabic if you turned it sideways, and she knew they were from the Chamber of Secrets. She also knew that Harry asked her to retrieve them because she wasn't Gryffindor enough to be insulted or afraid of Parseltongue books, and she wasn't Slytherin enough to try and keep them for herself.

She knew all of this rationally, had no issues with it emotionally, and she couldn't understand why everyone else was becoming upset.

The Twins had been sent to retrieve his collection of wet-to-damp potions ingredients, which he kept in the humid climate of the collapsed tunnel. Neville had been sent to the third-year girls dorm of Hufflepuff where Silvia Markston had hidden his stash of 'Recipes for Werewolves (not 'of' Werewolves).' Ron and Hermione each scoured the Gryffindor dorm for the odds and ends he had on his list, while Percy had simply retreated to his flat to gather the rare books that he was keeping safe for the Mage.

They were all fine with that, but it was the adults that had grown unsettled.

Snape had to dig up Petunia's entire rose garden, not that he was complaining, for a box he couldn't even open but was certain it wasn't worth the shrieking that had assaulted his ears. Remus was charged with gathering whatever it was he kept under his floor boards at Number Four while the homeowners were distracted by Snape, and he was beyond livid once he saw his nephews living conditions (and the bars). Sirius didn't even get to leave the house, he just had to bother Kreature for the photo album he held tightly, but seriously –he didn't even get to leave the house.

Why did Snape keep trying to open the box, Ginny had to wonder as she witnessed her Potions Professor slinging spells and charms at it. All he would find were more journals –those particular ones were on gardening, experiments and the like. Neville had already written a Thank You card (for the reason behind his potions explosions) and a lightly worded plea to read those particular volumes.

Hermione's novel of a letter held questions that Ginny was sure revolved around O.W.L study strategies and suggestions, since it had been Harry that studied with the older students over the years. She'd also found an odd reference in the margins on one of his charms texts –a tiny scrawl of 'lae lines' just above a passage of the theory of magical evolution.

Ginny actually didn't have much to say to Harry. It wasn't as though she didn't care, because she did. He'd done more for her and the entire school than he'd ever done for himself though, and she thought his new living situation would remedy that –it had to. The goblins that came back from their meeting with Harry had met with them right after, and while one had been unconscious, the other two were beaming as happily as a goblin ever could.

The manager of the account had admitted that a decent enough human was watching out for their little savoir, and that he'd shot first, asked no questions, and took his lecture like a man (as in, he didn't listen). That was all they'd say though, before the scribe had run off to start a creepy-enthusiastic conversation with the nearest teller in a language she didn't understand.

"What are you thinking about?" Neville asked her in a hushed whisper. Sirius and Snape had resumed yelling at one anther and the shy Gryffindor didn't want to risk catching their attention.

"I was wondering what kind of person this bloke, the one that shot the goblin, is to keep up with Harry," and she had been. Harry had written, not in length, about this guy that sometimes stayed with him and his adopted father. In his own way though, he alluded to a mutual fondness built on brutal honesty and pie. Ginny had to admit, she was rather fond of pie herself.

"Probably built like a Blast Ended Skrewt, physically and mentally," Neville joked back, but they both knew it had to be true. If the mystery man was anything less then Harry wouldn't bother, he would just steamroll him with his abrasive personality. "Imagine if they teamed up," he meant that as a joke also, but the reality of the possibilities sent a shiver down his spine.

"Sheer destruction of the world as we know it," Ginny agreed. One Harry was enough to change their school, but she didn't know how far his influence would stretch if he met someone with a complimentary personality –if such a person really existed. "Whatever may come from it, we really need to send his things off before Dumbledore shows up and wonders where all this stuff comes from," she added loudly, hoping that some of the (supposedly) more mature parties of their group would get the hint.

The goblins around them looked relieved; one even looked like he'd just jerked awake. At least Sirius and Snape looked properly chastised, as the lined up to put their shrunken items in another trunk for Harry.

"Alright," Hermione took charge, because she was Hermione and that was her right, "everyone line up for the next Scry-Message."

"Oh," Ginny exclaimed with excitement as she pushed one of her brothers out of the way, she wasn't sure which -they all started to look the same after a while.

* * *

**To Those Who Just Read:**

Once again, I'm sorry for always taking so long. I'm working on a new schedule though, and should be able to write more often.

-thinks- One more part in this case (it's always just 'one more' right?) and then Harry goes to high school. I'm super excited for that.

I like quotes and reviews,

Al


	15. Chapter 15

**To the Masses:** Anonymous reviewer thought the last line of chapter fourteen was a little racist. There's either a language barrier or they don't understand the complexities of a huge family. Maybe it's just the Mexican side of mine though, that can't seem to get anyone's name right on the first try –even if it's your own kid. I think at this point our parents just point and say 'you.'

In Addition: I had to reread chapter fourteen because it's been so long, and it's horrible. I cannot believe some of the errors.

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen**

_"Because things are the way they are, things will not stay the way they are." Bertolt Brecht_

"We're going to have to talk about boundaries later," Dean said with utmost certainty, as he looked around the hotel room for anything he may have missed. They would need to get out of California as soon as possible, as to avoid Bobby and John for just a little bit longer, and they'd spent the better part of an hour ridding the room of fingerprints and DNA. Harry's mind was still present, but not as obvious as earlier in the day and they were at least trying to respect each other's mental space.

"Must we?" Harry inquired as he attempted buckle a strap across his thigh with one hand. The cast hadn't been an issue earlier in the day, because information gathering very rarely required more than flipping through books and questioning locals. The upcoming portion of the rescue mission would be a little more taxing. While he didn't expect to need the knife to subdue a small child they could never be sure that there wasn't anything worse lurking around a corner. The top part of the holster knife's leather casing was easy enough, he just looped his belt through it, the bottom strapped across his upper thigh and that was a little harder for someone in a cast.

Dean was of similar beliefs and had holstered both of his guns, a large hunting knife was strapped to one arm, and he carried the small knife that Harley had given him –even though he thought it was a little too small to be of any use, but he'd feel bad for leaving it behind. He'd also retrieved his beloved leather jacket from Harley, with very little arguing, but was otherwise still disguised as Dexter in case they should run into Sam.

Harley didn't understand why Winchester was so adamant to avoid his baby brother. He was obviously very protective, and cared for him very deeply. He missed Sam, which was certain, with a depth that might as well have been printed on his forehead. Still, both Dean and John didn't mention him, didn't visit him, and their sense of betrayal was so ingrained that Harley would have thought Sam had committed an act much worse than going to college.

Moments earlier Harley had almost asked what was so wrong with furthering his education, but stopped himself short –he didn't want to know why Dean thought it was so horrible. Instead he'd observed the hunter bending over to tie his shoe, and with perfect aim struck Dean's protruding bum with the limp end of his belt.

Dean had stood, ramrod straight, at the snap of the leather as it licked against his backside in fright. Then turned just in time to see Harley run into the bathroom with a pair of pants and the offending accessory, all of which was followed by the soft click of the lock falling in place -not that such a flimsy bolt could keep him out, but the sound just punctuated the careless laughter.

At that time Dean though they should lay down some rules, and Harley didn't really agree.

"What do you mean 'must we?' Dude, you just spanked me. If that doesn't scream 'too far' then I don't know what does," Dean reflected in an almost prudish manner.

"Dean," Harley said in his 'this is me, being reasonable' tone, one that Dean didn't really hate –but it was the insight that was usually coated in that particular way that affected him. "We sleep in the same bed. Not that I'm complaining, but one of us probably would have if we weren't already prepared to go 'too far.' We're also in each other's head, we ran away together, and now we're assuming the same last name. Not only that, but you cuddle Dean. I mean, you really cuddle –like an octopus."

Dean had nothing to say about that for the time it took to shove a couple of towels into his duffel bag and run a piece of terrycloth around the television remote. "Are you saying we're in a relationship? I'm pretty sure I'd notice if we were."

"No," Harry said automatically, denying that romance had anything to do with their back and forth arguing and occasional domestic status. "I'm saying that 'too far' into one anothers personal boundaries has already happened and you're just bitchy because you didn't think of it first."

Dean could capitulate to that, mostly because it was true, and kept his silence as he continued to wipe down printable surfaces. Harley emerged from the bathroom a moment later, a bag full of clean towels and tiny bottles of complementary soaps. He stared at the young hunter and found that he couldn't really mind either. There was something very basic in the comfort they provide each other, and if Dean were honest with himself, and he wasn't for the moment, then he could understand that he was trying and failing to fill the void his brother left. Instead, he was discovering something new –new challenges, new knowledge, and new perspectives. Even the intimacy was new; he certainly shared anything, let alone sleeping space, with anyone as often as he did with Harley. The consistency, the amount of time Harley spent taking care of him and his family as best he could; it was nice, and safe. Dean had never had that before.

He could have pondered that a little longer, if he were a chick. Instead, he wiped down the bathroom as Harley took their bags to the door. One more pass over the room and they'd be done, Dean thought. Sammy would have said he was being paranoid, but if it was one thing he knew about his father and Bobby; you were totally screwed if they decided to hunt you. Thankfully, they weren't going to be killed, but Dean wasn't entirely sure that was better than the punishments those two old hunters would divvy out.

"I think we're done," Harley said moments later, after he'd walked through the hotel room once again –this time carrying a nice, fuzzy throw blanket with him and shoving it into their small, magically expanded bag. There was nothing left the disguised pair could pilfer from the nice hotel, so Harley grabbed the magically expanded bag and Dean shouldered the duffel of weapons. The sun was beginning to set and they had to hurry to the droms to track down Alej. Dean opened the door, checked down each side of the fancy hall, and allowed Harley though. He closed the door behind them and dropped the key card in a nearby trash can.

On the elevator down Harley darkened his hair so that it was a very dull, midnight black, and Dean's hair quickly matched his. The body work that had adorned Dean's arms disappeared and his tan returned. Earlier Harley's disguise had been replaced with a pair of sensible jeans and a dark t-shirt; Dean's clothes stayed the same as they always were. Lastly, their eyes were darkened and no longer the memorable shades of green that they naturally were. They looked very non-descript.

The elevator pinged and the doors slid open. Dean and Harley calmly made their way to the front door, and just like that Dexter and Amelia Chirkof were gone.

An hour later two disguised, smelly burglars stepped out of a matte black impala. They'd already checked three dumpsters, and got nothing for their trouble but several odd stares. Dean hadn't stopped mentally cursing since they flipped the lid on the first trash box, and most of his mental rants revolved about the smell soaking into his interior. In return Harley had tried to keep them as clean as possible, but he wasn't entirely sure how to command his magic to affect smell.

The two were steadily circling around Sam's dorm in search of more trash cans until it reached full dark, the sounds of the day had died down and calm settled over everything. Dean had noticed, since he was a child, how radically different the night felt compared to the day. He knew, of course, that some monsters could still attack during the day, but there was something about the busy noise of the day that seemed to keep evil away. It was at night, when people were at their weakest that trouble seemed to find them, and despite that the quiet was still comforting. Harry had noticed also, but it had more to do with magical properties and balance then it did with deeply ingrained training. He'd opened their connection enough to hear Dean and so Dean could hear them, but for a while they sort of just settled in their own thoughts –with various mixes of displeasure whenever they remembered the unpleasant task. There were moments though, that would sort of take them by surprise, when everything was as close to perfect as it would ever get.

After full dark though, the child had awoken and they stepped checking various locations filled with trash. Instead they staked out the parking lot from an angle of the building they recognized. Dean had asked Harry to make his impala unnoticed, in case Sam was to catch a glimpse of it. Harry's question returned, why didn't he want anything to do with his brother, but it continued to remain unasked. If Dean noticed it flit across his mind he pretending not to.

"So what do we do from here?" Dean asked sometime around ten, having extinguished his virtues, and he was contemplating the pros and cons of annoying Harry. He'd crossed his arms over his chest as he spoke, fighting the urge to lean his chair back and catch a little snooze.

"I'm not sure," Harley admitted, but only a moment later something felt different –off, about their surroundings. Through the connection Dean felt it too. It felt, more than it looked, like shadows were spreading and dominating the area, despite the bright waning moon. "Perhaps we should go see what's causing that," he added with a hint of sarcasm.

"You think?" Dean returned, taking a moment to feel for his weapons. He waited for Harley to do the same and they moved towards the edge of the shadows to investigate.

Alcyon didn't have much to tell them about cucuy, a type of Mexican boogeyman, other than they got their reputation from their fondness of 'underworld' things. Harley understood that to mean souls or shadows, and apparently the latter part was true. The pair at been at least partially aware of what they were up against. So they investigated the shadows with trepidation and just a small amount of hope that everything would turn out alright, save for the voice of reason that they carried with them screaming 'it always gets worse! Don't fool yourself, you know your plan always goes to hell! Nothing every works out for you!' They both did their best to ignore that bit of subconscious.

Unfortunately for them there was no hunter protocol for capturing a child and returning him to his monster-mommy. The best they could think of was when Dean opened his big mouth and started calling out "Alej," which wouldn't have helped regardless.

Harry could see the plan in Dean's mind unfold, they needed to lure him out –but he was completely against letting his brother in on the hunt, but neither did he want to use Sam as bait. Dean would have agreed to let Harley disguise him as Sam, but Harley's glamour couldn't alter height or weight, only color and small features. There was no way they could disguise Dean as his Sasquatch of a little brother.

The two walked along the shadows, straining their eyes for any sign of a pink-eyed child. There was nothing, and then Dean had a brilliant idea. "Why don't you send out a beam of that mojo, like that night? The power attracts people, doesn't it? It could draw him out of his hiding spot."

As a point in Dean's favor Harley couldn't immediately refute that logic. There was one glaring hole in that plan, however. "It's not a bad idea," Harley conceded, "I can't just send up a beam of light," Harley added thoughtfully. He tapped his foot as he exhaled in a huff, only slightly frustrated that he couldn't think faster.

Dean also looked thoughtful, in his own intense way, but said nothing. He didn't know the ways in which his partner could work his magic, what restrictions there were, so his ideas were less trustworthy in his own opinion. He categorized what he did know Harley was capable of, but his uncertainly kept his teeth tightly sealed.

Harley wracked his memory rather thoroughly. His capabilities were expanding, which frighting him. However, he didn't want to frighten the new people around him. He'd always dealt with his magic along, so his most recent developments would be kept close to the vest. Subtle was his game, which seemed to counteract Dean's impulsiveness nicely.

So that was the key, Harley thought brightly while slapping Dean's arm repeatedly. It was completely unnecessary considering their mental connection. Dean had seen Harley visualize the outcome, and did his beset to emphasise his support.

With no resistance from his partner, Harley concentrated on the feel of his energy. He recalled memories of the few nights prior, of cold pain and the rapid flow of the Mother's gift. He took hold of that feeling and used it.

Harley felt through the air with care and precision. There was a line that he noticed when he'd first played with free magic in his third year at Hogwarts. The light and the shadows were always kept separate. When the darkness races across the illuminated surfaces, and vice versa, the change is preceded by a fine line that was invisible to the naked eye.

To Harley's knowledge, non-magical people hadn't figured out it was there. He'd give them another ten years or so, until they would. Regardless, it was there and Harley grasped those tiny particles with his magic and pushed them back.

The shadows struggled, but receded in the wake of his powerful will. He could feel the weak spots in his counter attack and filled the holes quickly. He brought his hands up to mimic the barrier he was pushing forward, and the plan was working.

The plan was also draining, which surprised Harley. He had just enough time to cement his line of regular-night lighting before a wave of fatigue broke his concentration. When he released his power he instantly stumbled forward and fell to his knees. As it happened he felt Dean move away quickly. A mental shout reassured him Dean didn't just not care, but the child they were looking for had been exposed.

Harley raised his tired head to see Dean rush towards the silhouette of a small child. He felt no ill intent, more of an abscence of thought as he tried to read the child. It was almost as if the pink-eyed boy's mind was being hidden or trapped in itself. The lac of emotion was more alarming than any other possibility.

Dean reached the child and recalled memories of his younger brother when he was that small, all of those years ago. He bent his knees as he moved forward and scooped the pink-eyed child up. Instantly, one arm moved to restrain Alej around the middle and his other hand reached to yank at the collar.

His fingers wrapped around the warm metal when a tiny, barefoot connected with his jaw. He didn't remember Sammy being so strong, but he also forgot to take Alej's non-human reality into consideration.

A simple foot-to-jaw almost dislocated Dean's face. without a full thought, panic rose from Harley's gut and he flung a handful of power at the pair. Just as soon Harley was on his feet and rushing towards the pair.

The child stopped moving, completely frozen. Panic was continuing to rise, more quickly than before. It took a moment to realize the emotions were Dean's, and not only was the child unmoving, he wasn't breathing.

Five seconds after Harley had stopped his struggle, the armature hunter reached Alej and instantly hit him with a jolt of electricity to shock the child back into regular breathing. There was no time to address his mistake, as Dean dumped the child against his chest. Harley didn't know what to do with a child, how to handle one, even one that was closer to Harley's magic than Dean's humanity.

Dean sensed his hesitation and took barely a moment to place Harley's arms around the child's shoulders and legs, and Harley picked up on the order to hold him tightly. Harley wasn't so sure that he wasn't so sure he wasn't hurting the child, the pressure of the struggling child against his cast was burning, but he did what he was told. He pured his magic into his muscles to boost his strength and giving himself the stamina to counter the child's limitless physical energy.

Dean automatically took hold of the knife, paying no mind to which one it was. He noted for a moment that it twitched in his palm, but he didn't have time to dwell. One weird thing at a time, he thought as he grabbed hold of the metal around the child's neck and frantically searched for a seam or crevice he could pry open. There was no weakness in the metal band, no flaws, no grooves, and as the struggle with the child continued Dean and Harley became more frantic.

"Just slice it off," Harley hissed.

Dean didn't have time to dwell on the peculiarities of the statement and pulled at the collar. He made certain that the knife wouldn't touch the kid as he slipped the blade underneath the collar and sliced upwards like he would rope.

Magic against magic hissed and sputtered as the black blade Harley had given Dean cut clean through the unknown alloy. He could hardly believe it. Then again,, he didn't need to, he just needed to twist the metal so he could get it off the kids neck, and he did.

Instantly the struggling stopped and Alej fell limp in Harley's arms. "_Gracias_," he said in a tired voice.

Dean surveyed the area as Harley checked the kid for any alarming injuries. He was asking bone-headed questions about phalanges and deltoids when Dean caught sight of movement in the shadows. It may have been nothing, but it may also have been the controlling force behind the fancy jewelry the kid had on.

"Take him back to the car and lock the doors," he said to Harley. "Remember what I told you about guns." Then he took off, bounding quickly thought he alleyway after shadows. He thought he'd been imagining things at first, but the tip of a hat moved through his line of vision for a movement and he ran further.

Moments later all signs were gone and Dean was filled with a scene of 'alone' which he took to mean that he'd lost the target. So carefully he made his way back tot eh parking lot and his Impala.

Harley was sitting in the passenger side seat. The lights were off but Dean could see dancing shadows around the Impala and two animated figures nodding and gesturing wildly. The closer Dean got the more details he noticed.

Harley's face read of uncertainty, which matched nicely with the emotions he was being fed through their temporary mental connection thing. He wasn't sure how to interact with such a young child. He remembered how he was at that age, and Dean tried to politely ignore the memories that flitted across the backdrop of their collective minds. He filed them away for later, with the intent to talk to Harley about them later, when there wasn't a kid around. Until then though, he could only nudge his little comrade in the right direction. So he sent comfort as best as he thought he could and took his time surveying the area before knocking on the car window.

Harley opened the window a sliver, not enough to press a gun through the crack just as Dean had instructed. "Password?" he drawled in the same fashion that the Pink Lady would, in his best regal tone.

They agreed on a password every morning, so far. It wasn't as if they actually had to, because Harley could just look into his mind. It was a good habit to have though, in ace he worked with other hunters who would be less understanding of his extra mental bits. They hadn't been having issues, until that morning when Harley insisted it be something completely off-the-wall and Dean wanted something simple yet vaguely dirty. The tiny mental poke he was feeling in the side of his temple was Harley's amused sort of taunting, daring him to say it.

"Dude," Dean complained and then insisted, "I'm not saying it."

Alej, who seems the ever energetic little Mexican boogeyman, climbed over from the passenger seat to get up close to the window. "Say it," he dared in a tiny, and unsurprisingly annoying and gravely tone.

Dean nearly stomped his feet, but settled for crossing simply crossing his arms. After a moment, when the two just continued to stare at him expectantly and Harley's thoughts were only becoming more amused, he sighed and uncrossed his arms again. "Damnit...Batra...batracha, batrachooooomy..." They allowed his stumbling to continue on for another moment before Harley cut him off sweetly.

"Batrachomyomachy," he said smoothly, like he'd practiced (because he had). He turned to Alej then, to explain, "it means to make a mountain out of a molehill. Do you know what that means?"

Alej nodded and moved back to the passenger seat as Harley unlocked the door and began to scoot over. They moved around a bit until Harley was safe in his seat and Dean was in his, and only a little huffy. "What's wrong with something simple and easy to pronounce, anyway?" he complained. The child sat in the middle of the two, as the three of them waited for his mother to show.

According to the blue seer, who Dean had dwindled down to calling the Blue Mama in the hours between meeting Alcyone and their departure from the semi-fancy hotel, Alej's mother would meet them there. Then they would have just enough time to get out of state before John and Bobby finally caught up with them.

Under no circumstances were their father's and Alej's mother to cross paths. Neither Dean nor Harley were looking forward to seeing some sort of Hunter Daddy versus Monster Mommy battle going. Dean didn't trust a seer's claim that it would all work out, and Harley was so confident that the Monster Mommy would show up and they would have enough time to get to Utah before their father's gunned Dean down. If it weren't obvious, Harley was also sure that the guns would be pointed at Dean because he was small and cute and innocent looking. There was a sliver of doubt because he was the magic-user and Dean was the good follower.

So the three of them conversed, and when Alej got tired of talking (which took almost an hour) Dean gave tiny life lessons about how to handle guns and knives and Harley gave him sound advice for controlling shadows. In between keeping a five year old, who just barely remembered to use his English words, Dean and Harley bickered which only set Alej into peels of laughter.

Harley was five minutes into listing all the reason's Alej should not fall into a relationship with anyone like Dean, female or male, human or otherwise, ever when a chill ran down Dean's spine and up Harley's. Dean had just enough time to look past his steering wheal and into the night before a tiny, angry looking woman appeared and slammed her hands down on the hood of his Impala.

She obviously wasn't human, or nymph, or any other type of monster Dean had ever seen. She was cucuy, as he could tell from the large horns that spirals out of her temples and wove around her head like some really creepy crown. Consequently that meant she could keep her presence hidden until the very last moment and her super-more-than-human strength could leave perfect little hand-shaped dents in the hood of his car.

Her jewel toned eyes were burning in anger and Dean was under the impression that soon, very soon -and before he could even finish that thought the small woman was shouting at them in Spanish. She marched around to the drivers side and was ready to tear the door off of the Impala and beat Dean into a human pulp, but she stopped short when Alej let out a happy squeal. The cucuy child nearly kicked Dean in the face for a second time in his effort to crawl over the two hunters and launch himself out of the window and into his mothers arms. Dean helped the process along by rolling down the window quickly and leaning back before the little menace could add to his collection of bruises.

"Mama," Alej began, before he dissolved into Spanish and neither Harley nor Dean could keep up with what he was saying. The mother just kept giving them suspicious looks that eventually turned to surprise and then, finally, gratitude.

"Thank you," she eventually said, with an even heavier accent than her sons. "He says you found him, you saved him, an you chased the bad man away."

"I'm sure you would have done just fine on your own," Dean said quickly, "after tearing apart the city...we just thought we'd help out before anything worse could have happened."

"You're child is very smart, ma'am," Harley added a moment later, "He knew well enough to siphon off my power to send a vision, rather than risking his own." He explained a little more of how they found Alejandro, only mentioned Alcyone as a local nymph with children of her own, and their vague wish to keep the students on the campus safe. No need to mention Sammy, Harley and Dean thought.

"My name is Maria," she said when all the explanations were done, "a potions enthusiast, and you may send me a messenger bird when you want your payment Dean and Harley."

Harley simply nodded, sending a short mental reasoning to Dean that she must have known how his methods of giving and taking worked. It was enough for Dean that Sammy was safe, but later, Dean relayed, he would also need to know how Harley's methods worked.

"We will," Dean replied, feeling their dealings were coming to a close.

Alej was just happy to be in the arms of his mother, and she held him as he said his own little good-byes, just a moment before the unnaturally dark shadows encased them.

Dean and Harley sat in their seats as if they were watching the mother and her child walk away, both feeling a sense of accomplishment. Pride welled up in their chests and for a nano-second Dean thought 'we can do this, this saving monsters thing' if it meant reuniting families.

Then a light flickered on in the high, right corner of the dorm they were parked in front of and Dean panicked. Apparently he was aware of his brother enough to scope out just what room belonged to him, and he was right, it seemed.

Harley watched as Dean quickly turned the key in the ignition and began to back up, a tall figure with broad shoulders approached the window and eventually stuck his head out.

The first thing Harley ever noticed about Sam Winchester were his moss colored eyes, hardened like a hunters, peering out of his bedroom window and scanning for threats.

**Bonus**

Hagrid stared down at his extra-extra-large tea mug and hefted a loaded sigh. Beside him his dog, Fang, let out a similar sound that most likely meant he was hungry. Hagrid's sigh had been more out of misery, and he was miserable because one of his favorite persons in the world was missing.

Harry had been his responsibility, just after his parents had died. Harry had been his responsibility when he was eleven, to show him the wonders of the magical world and help him get his school supplies. He was unexpectedly tasked with explaining that magic was real, something he wasn't really prepared for but he was happy to do none the less. Later that day he'd had to explain the whole You-Know-Who situation to a child that had been lied to most of his life. Hagrid had bought Harry the first birthday present he would ever remember, using some of the money he had been saving over the years. He was the first friendly face Harry would remember helping him, saving him from the relatives that scorned him.

After school started Hagrid had taken it upon himself to make sure the lad was settling in alright. Hagrid was happy and proud to see he'd made good friends, he was enthusiastic about his studies. Except perhaps for potions class, but after a stern talk Harry put a little more effort into that class too, and was adjusting well. Harry came around to help him with chores every Saturday morning, and they'd have afternoon tea and just talk. Harry trusted him, and Hagrid may not have been as smart as most people but he was far from a fool, he knew that Harry's trust was hard to come by and he felt he had a good idea of why.

Sometimes they'd talk about things Hagrid liked, like unusual and misunderstood animals. Hagrid liked those days, when he could teach Harry a thing or two that weren't in any text books. Sometimes they would talk about people, but it wasn't often as they'd both had an aversion to gossip. Often they would talk about Harry's problems, which was usually up to Hagrid to prompt. Harry confided in him, not everything, but every day things that bothered him and sometime he'd ask how to deal with some of his issues. Occasionally they talked about things as simple as a bump Harry had reached in his homework. Hagrid was proud to admit that it wasn't often, but even Harry's understanding was limited.

The half-giant had put some thought into it one day, to see if he could figure out a pattern in Harry's limitations. It wasn't easy, as he wasn't a very well educated bloke, but some time in third year he'd realized what it was. Harry had a hard time understanding the concept of 'help.' He'd never been helped as a child, he'd never been asked for help at the Dursley's –at Privet Drive he was simply told to do things. Later, at Hogwarts, he didn't need help with most of his school work, and Hermione Granger was excellent at per-emptively assisting him with homework. Hagrid mostly saw it in some of the easier spellwork –small, charms and the like that required a little bit of magic to assist an already existed element. Harry's natural reaction was to ask his magic to do all the work, instead of gently pushing something along. Herbology was also a task, as most of the plants were semi-sentient and only wanted a gentle touch or a sip of water. In response Harry would avoid touching them, and substituting care with sustenance. Potions were actually his worst subject, at least until Hagrid had turned it into a puzzle game for him. Harry just couldn't comprehend how all the ingredients, the way they were prepared, how they were turned and such, all relied on it's different components. Hermione was probably the first one to scold him, telling him it wasn't a stew, and then Hagrid sat him down one Saturday and explained the nature of certain things to him –such as a root from a hydrangea was solid and grounding and when stirred with something light and mischievous, like a clover, it created a balance, but the two had to work together.

After all of those issues were addressed individually then Harry better understood the course work.

Hagrid was no fool though; he knew what Harry was the moment he set eyes on him as baby. His human understanding was a little funny, true, but the Giant in him understood nature perfectly. Harry was the key to their evolution, without him they would be stuck in the same rut they'd been in for hundreds of years. He'd made it his job to help Harry when he got stuck, to support him when he needed it, and to just be there in general. He just hadn't expected Harry to progress as quickly as he had, and then he'd just disappeared.

Hagrid knew it would happen eventually, but after it did he felt a bit like a mother Thestral when their colt was ready to fly. Hagrid sighed again, after a large gulp of Irish tea, and stared out of his tiny window at the pumpkin patch. His nest felt empty.

* * *

**To Those Who Just Read: **I'm sorry this chapter took so long to be spat out, and it's not even as long as I wanted it to be. I think I cut out an entire one-third. I'm sorry I've fallen out of contact with some of my favorite internet peoples. Let's see, and I'm sorry for all the mistakes in this chapter. I really wanted to get one out on New Years, so how that I was both alive and writing...but it's two a.m. and (as I tell everyone) two a.m. writing is never good writing. At least, not mine.

I hope to hear from people soon.

I woke my mom up at midnight to tell her 'Happy New Year' and she replied 'Merry Christmas.' I'm not sure what to think of that, other than it's funny.

Sorry again, and I hope to find some routine in all the frantic running about I've been doing since last March.

I like reviews, but at this point I understand if people are a little peeved it took me so long to update,

Alzipher


	16. Chapter 16

**To the Masses:** I'm celebrating my swift escape from jury duty. I'm also guzzling down caffeine for the first time in a while. Enjoy.

Harry/Harley: Fourteen (Birthday is July 31st)  
Sam: Nineteen (Birthday is May 2nd)  
Dean: Twenty-two (Birthday is January 24th)  
John and Bobby: Prehistoric (I didn't bother looking it up)

**Warnings:**OOC, AU, OC's, Slash, mentions of abuse, mentions of sexual abuse , -inhales-, Manipulative Dumbledore, choppy concepts, awkward sentence structures, Cunning Harry, sexual situations, inspires more questions and answers, underage drinking, underage smoking, cradle robbing, other illegal things, cross-dressing, erratic updates, homophones, blood, gore, and other stuff.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Supernatural or Harry Potter, and I'm certainly not making any money writing fanfiction.

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**Chapter Sixteen**

"_I'm a heroine addict. I need to have sex with women who have saved someone's life." Mitch Hedberg_

Dean hadn't stopped grieving over the state of his car, not since he'd first surveyed the damage in the street lights of Palo Alto. He knew Maria, the Monster Mommy, had struck his car with fierce, inhuman strength at the first sight of her child in a car with strangers. He just hadn't fully realized what that meant, because seriously, what woman had that kind of upper body power? Mafia, apparently. Once every twenty minutes or so Dean would glance at one of tiny indentations of Hulk powered hands and swear out loud, in his mind, and felt a pang of sadness at the state of his only prized possession.

Harley understood. As a child, as Harry, he'd only been given the bare minimum he needed to survive. Hagrid was the first to ever give him anything of any worth, without expecting anything in return, and he cherished Hedwig very deeply. He understood that the Impala was a gift from John, that it was the only thing out of all of the clothes, the weapons, and the talismans that Dean treasured over everything (with the exception of family). So he'd offered to magic away the dents, but Dean refused.

"No way dude," Dean said in a solid tone, "we are done with the job, so we're done with the hoodoo on the car." End of discussion, apparently, and so Harley pealed away the magic that encased the Impala and she returned to her shiny black state of awesomeness. Next, he released his hold on their own disguises. Their eyes returned to their respected shades of green, their skin lightened, Dean's hair returned to the light brown it had been while Harley's looked decidedly brighter. Tunes flowed through the old radio soon after, and they traveled to Utah without interruption.

It wasn't until they'd parked just outside of an old motel that the panic started setting in. Their fathers were going to catch up very soon, now that Dean had charged money to one of his known alias' and everything was back to it's natural coloring. Neither one of them knew when the old men would finally catch up, according to Alcyone it would be at that hotel, but the time frame was a little questionable. They quickly unpacked the bare essentials, change of clothes and Harley grabbed hold of the quilt they'd brought with them from Bobby's place.

Both were in no emotional state to actually talk things out, but both knew there were things they needed to say before John and Bobby caught up and monopolized their time. Dean was almost too busy worrying about the words his father would chose, because when that man was mad he could also be cruel. He remembered the fights he and Sammy used to get into, and neither made a habit of pulling their punches. They would go for the nuts for maximum emotional pain, and Dean didn't want to be the target of John's ire. Neither did he want to be a disappointment to his father, who spent the majority of Dean's life drilling rules and procedures into his mind.

Harley was freaking out in similar way, with the exception of having no idea what was coming. He'd only had a father figure for a month, and they were still on shaky ground. His biggest worry was that Bobby would decide he wasn't worth it after all, and Harley really should have thought about all that before he decided to drive across the country to save the baby version of what they were supposed to kill. He didn't regret it, of course. He could feel the thread settling between him and the potions enthusiast, and he knew that it meant something great for the cause. He just didn't know what the cause was, and he was just all around worried that this conflict they were approaching was going to end badly.

Harley went to shower first, and Dean left him in the privacy of their motel room to ground up some sustenance for the both of them. Before he'd departed he'd shouted 'remember what I said about guns' through the bathroom door. Harley giggled, just a little bit.

'Remember what I said about guns,' was quickly becoming code for 'In case of emergency the biggest firearm is underneath my bed, a handgun in the nightstand, a .44 is under the sink, and extra ammo is under the television. Only in case of emergency, otherwise stay the fuck away from all firewarms.' Dean had given him the big explanation during their extensive stay in the car, and then walked him through the procedure when they'd reached the hotel room in California. It was a process, Dean explained very professionally, that they went through at every hotel room, just after they laid down the salt. The car had it's own hiding places, and Harley already knew Bobby's place was a landmine of dangerous things. Apparently hunters liked to have their things spread out, in case something burst into their space, because they wanted to be close enough to make a dive for a weapon in any base. Harley understood, but his weapon, his magic, was internal, easily accessible, and probably more dangerous than any gun. So Dean's careful instance about the gun rules was just a little bit amusing.

Harley finished up his shower, and dressed in a worn out pair of jeans and cheap, vintage gas station shirt before he went out to sit wit Dean at the tiny table. He was happy to privately note that his hair didn't look so dull and his skin wasn't so shallow. He may actually be able to work on a slight tan by the time school started. Speaking of school, Harley didn't finish that thought because panic was starting to well up, just like every time he thought about school. Muggle school. Muggle high school. Muggle high school with no Ron of Hermione, and he was almost positive John and Bobby wouldn't let him take Dean.

"Dude," Dean said calmly, reaching across the small table to rest a large hand on Harley's thin wrist, "it's not that bad." He'd been meaning to talk to Harley about this school thing for a while, because he wasn't appreciating the senseless panic that ran through their mental highway every time he accidentally thought about it.

Harley took a deep breath and was prepared to listen, taking solace in the feel of Dean's support.

"High school is supposed to be shitty," Dean conceded a moment later, "but it's not going to kill you. You'll get there and maybe even meet some people your own age. And hey, I'll be there afterwards to kick some ass if anyone messes with you." It sure sounded like a promise, Harley thought. They took a moment to process each others thoughts and Dean trekked on, "and Bobby's not going to drop you just because you broke rules he hadn't even talked to you about. He'll probably make his grumpy face for a while, yell a little bit, but he's not gonna hit you or anything." Harley flinched at the thought of Bobby brining large fists down on him, his kindness quickly morphed into Vernon's puce face and Harley shrunk in his seat while pulling his wrist away from Dean. He was in no mood for touching.

Dean reached into Harley's bent form and retrieved the hand, holding onto it more tightly. His mind was urging Harley to listen to his words. "Bobby's not that kind of person, so kill those thoughts. I should know, right?" It wasn't a secret, but it wasn't talked about, and Harley had suspected for a while that Bobby had a steady hand in raising Dean and his brother. Memories of tossing around a baseball filtered through, then Bobby trying to help a little boy named Sammy with his homework only to be confused, but he tried. Bobby taking the boys to some thrift store after their latest growth spurt, then Bobby calling everyone 'idjits.' Harley took comfort.

"They're going to separate us, you know," Harley said, and Dean did know. It was only reasonable that if the two got into trouble together, they'd just separate them and address the situation individually. Harley hadn't expected to be so saddened by the thought though.

By standards reserved for friends and couples, he and Dean didn't really get along. A bit of his mind was reserved for thoughts of the opposite nature. After all, Ron and Hermione argued constantly, but they were still best friends. Harley even suspected they would be lovers in the future, when they both became comfortable with themselves. He'd watched them since first year, he'd seen the amusement in Ron's expression when Hermione was all riled up, and he'd seen the happiness in Hermione when she had someone to debate useless things with. He suspected things were similar for Dean and himself. He certainly enjoyed losing his control and facing Dean with biting words. In the moments he hadn't been arguing with the hunter they'd enjoyed quiet conversations that straddled the boarder into 'chick-flick' territory, or they'd enjoyed stretches of silence that weren't awkward at all. Even when Dean was away on a hunt with his father he still called to check in on their down time, usually to ask stupid questions or tell him about the case. For a while the updates had been heavily edited, but that lasted as long as it took for Harley to ask how many times the ghost threw him around before he remembered to salt the bastard.

They argued playfully, they were honest with each other (for the most part), and neither one of them really had anyone else. A year before Dean had Sammy, and before Harley was kidnapped by a demon he'd had his friends, and when that was all torn away they sort of eclipsed one another. It was quick, too quick, and it may have had something to do with the way Harley's magic filtered into his roommate or Dean's protective instincts being projected onto Harley, but neither one of them wanted to go their separate ways. Neither one of them really wanted to talk about that either, and their dad's certainly weren't going to take that into consideration when dishing out a punishment.

"Keep your mental bits where they are, and we'll see how far they stretch," were Dean's final words before he released Harley's wrist and they both went back to their greasy dinner.

Bobby and John reached them five hours later, sometime around eight in the morning, before the boys even got out of bed. One of them had picked the lock, and they'd let themselves in. Dean's toes had twitched against the back of Harley's legs as the sound of someone breaking in woke him up, but he'd processed just who it was and hadn't bothered getting out of bed. He faked sleep just a little bit longer.

Then one of them started the damn coffee pot and Harley started sniffing around from his cocoon. The kid was little bit too fond of the stuff, in anyone's opinion really, and he started to migrate to the source before he'd even detangled himself or opened his eyes. He pulled the blankets with him too, leaving Dean alone and cold, and the movements ruined his fake sleep. Dean had to sit up quickly, and wrapped an arm around Harleys torso before he crawled off the end of the bed and hurt himself. Dean knew landing on a broken arm would prolong the healing, and probably hurt worse than the original break, so he pulled the little hunter-in-training into the middle of the bed and did most of the untangling himself, before releasing the little beast.

Dean did his best to ignore the clicks and flashes coming from the corner, probably Bobby and some expensive surveillance camera, but when he was done he had no excuse to ignore their fathers. Harley did, the little bastard, he was still sleeping.

John opened his mouth, probably to start the lecture, but Bobby kicked him underneath the table. It was probably to remind him that they had some prior agreement, because Dean knew they talked about it before they reached Utah. John was always really particular to how his sons were raised ,and it hated it when Bobby or anyone else told him what to do or went against his specific plans. He probably started the whole thing by warning Bobby off of interfering with whatever punishment he had planned. Bobby hated it when he did that, so he probably countered with his own warning now that he had his own son to deal with. Yeah, Dean was sure they talked about it.

While Harley was trying to become one with the coffee Dean collected the weapons stashed around the room and packed them up with military precision. He didn't bother touching the quilt, because Harley would just fold it again when he was awake enough.

Five minutes later they were both ready to leave. Their things had been separated into two different bags, Harley was staring at everyone with bleary eyes, and Dean stood at attention every time he stopped moving for more than a few seconds (a sure sign he was ready for the lecture, and was prepared to keep all comments to himself). They didn't bother checking out of the room, because they hadn't checked in with real names and it was about time to burn that identity anyway. The owner would figure out they were one eventually.

John pulled Dean back while Bobby led them to his old pick-up. Harley watched with sad, lightly more awake eyes, as Bobby pulled out of the parking space and they began to the journey back to South Dakota. Harley could already feel the connection between Dean and himself strain, and though they'd been optimistic it would go as far as they wanted, it didn't seem to be an option.

'Bye Dean,' Harley said with sad eyes.

'See you later Harry,' Dean returned with waves of acceptance and expectations to see him again. The use of his real name took him by surprise, but it wasn't unwelcome, and Harley let go of the connection before it snapped like a rubber band and hurt them both. Five miles was their limit, apparently.

Sixty miles after that Bobby decided to talk.

He and John hadn't been happy to discover that their son's had run away together. According to Missouri, who was waiting back at the Salvage Yard, they were chasing after something, trying to be the hero's, but didn't know what. The elf, who had joined them on the trip to Utah but disappeared as soon as they arrived, was sure it had something to do with a power spike somewhere along the coast, but was stubbornly withholding details like which coast. The only reason they even knew about the power spike at all was because Johns' forceful nature had impressed the Canadian recluse.

Harley knew all of that before Bobby even began to speak, all without reading his mind. The information was welcome, but the questions about how he'd known were not.

"Next time you got a problem you don't run off with some hotheaded kid, like an idiot," Bobby warned. His tone was stern and stressed around the edges. He'd been thinking about how to say that for a few hours, and he was going to sugar coat it, but didn't know how.

"Yes sir," Harley said immediately. That was a rule he could follow.

"Next time something unusual happens, even weird by your standards, you tell me," Bobby continued, and that was followed by another' yes sir.' "Same for if you plan on traveling out of the state, even if it's not for a hunt and you and Dean decide you just wanna see the Grand Canyon or something. Lord knows that boy never enjoyed those tourist traps before." Harley nodded, filing that information away for later.

Bobby paused to collect more of his thoughts, and was a bit surprised that there was no back-talk, at all. Even Dean would have tried to justify himself, just a little bit. "What have you got to say for yourself?" Bobby asked.

Harley seemed a bit taken back by the question, and that was just a clue to Bobby that he'd never defended himself before. If he had he was certainly out of practice.

"Ummm," Harley began a little nervously, "I'm sorry. Not for going, but…" he wasn't sure what he was sorry for, for a moment. "I'm sorry if you worried?" The damn kid wasn't even sure if his own adopted father was worried or not, and that was kind of sad. Bobby was torn between giving him a hint and leaving him to feel guilty, but the kid figured it out swiftly enough. "I suppose if you've made an investment in my well being, you would be worried…and I didn't think about that. I'm not sorry for saving the child, though."

"A kid?" Bobby asked, and his hunter instincts kicked in. He was past the age of being an active participate in each case, but he'd earned his scars and his knowledge. He was in charge of Hunter Base One, apparently. It was a nexus of information, and he did his best to help other hunters, the Winchesters especially. The hunter instincts he had matured into an information gatherer, and he was prepared to receive a report. He just wasn't sure the kid was ready to give one. He knew that Harley's parents said he'd been in trouble before, but it was always hard to get someone his age to report calmly, without reverting into a scared-but-in-denial idiot.

Harley was prepared to defy those expectations, and he started with their arrival at the hotel. He explained their disguises while filing away a reminder to never use them again, he explained the important recon (not the fun, food oriented kind), but he only got to Alcyone's part in the entire thing before Bobby started asking questions.

"What are humans to them?" was a perfectly objective question, general enough to include 'eating them' but not directly accusing. According to what he'd read they generally stayed way from folks, and no hunter had called to demand how to kill one.

"Generally distant," Harley started, "they feed off of their element, in this case they get their energy from water. From what we gathered though, she met her husband while he was vacationing in Greece, and married there. He's human, and a professor at Stanford. They have three children, one on the way, and their diets are split between water energy and human food. Oh, and she attends Monsters Are People Too, meetings…I think it's a self-help group for some of the locals."

Bobby was stuck at 'self-help meetings' for a moment, but it eventually made sense. There were vast cultural differences between being a human and not…but as long as they didn't hurt anybody, he was alright, he figured. It was very odd.

They spent some time discussing scrying and other forms of divination, and Bobby wanted to know about her powers in detail. Harley told him what he could, but the truth was that unless they were nymphs they wouldn't' be able to accomplish it.

They discussed the way the visions matched up with reality, and Bobby had a lot to say about running into danger without the right information. Not all of it was nice either, but between the insults to his intelligence Harley gleamed facts and learned from his mistakes.

When it came to Dean's giving chase to something mysterious Harley wasn't entirely sure what to say. It was apparent that Dean had taken control of the situation, but he did have some impressions form their connection. A man in shadows had been keeping watch over the child , almost as if he was testing his control. It wasn't certain that's what he was doing though, so they were still left with a lot of questions.

Bobby hadn't asked about the knife that Harley had given to Dean. He knew it was something between the two of them, but Harley could feel the curiosity rolling of off him in waves. He really did want to know. Unfortunately, all Harley could tell him were the materials and runes he'd used. That they were for protection, personal growth, strength, and wisdom. The blade was made of magically reinforced obsidian, and likely the sharpest in all of their arsenals. Even if it did break, there was a strong chance that it would mend itself. The collar that it cut was secreted away in the depths of Harley's magically expanded bag, and he was told to retrieve it as soon as they reached home. Bobby wanted to examine it for future reference.

They talked briefly about Alej's Monster Mommy, and Harley finished his report by stating she owed him and Dean a favor. Their work was a little shaky, but overall he did a good job, but what Bobby said was "don't you run off again, not until you're fully trained." According to Dean, that could take years and years. Harley wasn't only being trained as a hunter either, he needed to finish up his mage training, and no one but the Canadian Elf had a clue of how long that would take.

The rest of the drive was spent going over the mission again, but Bobby took more time to tell him all of the things he did wrong and how to improve on a situation like that. Bobby also warned him against flinging his powers around without knowing the full consequence, and that was a rule.

Finally, just an hour outside of Sioux Falls, they got to the repercussions.

"You and Dean aren't going to be seeing anything of each other for a month," Bobby said. No Dean for a month, Harley thought, he could handle that. He really could. "You get calls every Friday, if he remembers, for half an hour unless he calls one of the government phones for some back up." The government phones lined Bobby's kitchen and were labeled with various acronyms like 'FBI' and 'CIA.' As it stood Harley was only allowed to answer the Interpol phone, until he learned a couple of different accents, the speech patterns, and official protocols. "You keep up with your chores around the house, but you'll be logging more time in the shop until school starts. Then you'd better keep your grades up." Or what, Harley wasn't sure, but he also knew Bobby didn't really know either.

It didn't really seem like a punishment though, because in Harley's experience it either included pain and a dark place to sleep or scrubbing cauldrons or trophies until his fingers burned and ached.

"You ever pull that shit again and you don't be getting off lightly," Bobby swore. Then, like a storm, the disappointment and the frustration seemed to pass. Not in the way that Mrs. Wealsey's frantic emotions seemed to hop around, but more like the time for that was over. Bobby reached underneath his jacket and pulled out a package. "And don't you ever let us forget your birthday again, little idiot," he said affectionately and passed the present wrapped in the Sunday comics over to Harley.

He stared at it for a moment, wide eyed. Bobby seemed nervous, but let him take his time. He unwrapped it carefully, trying to preserve Foxtrot and Zits, but he got it off eventually, folding the wrapping paper in a ridiculous display of sentimentality. Inside was a phone, it wasn't the best model but it wasn't a piece of shit either. The contact list consisted of a few numbers, some of them he recognized, like Dean's and Bobby's. Missouri's number was in there also, along with names he didn't recognize.

"There's a woman named Ellen Harvelle, you call her first, if something happens to me. Don't you ever call Rufus about me unless the whole worlds gone to shit…" and Bobby started telling him all about the other hunters.

A month later Harley was clutching that same phone, which he had named but hadn't told anyone because he was sure it was odd. He was tempted to call Dean, and panic until he'd shriveled into a raisiny old man or the ground opened up to swallow him whole. Or in pieces, he wasn't all that picky.

He'd woken up that morning feeling a little less than fine, and curled up on Dean's side of the bed. He'd only just started to become accustom to the fact that Dean wasn't going to walk through the kitchen and ask for pie, and he wasn't going to wake up to him hogging the bed. He did get to talk to his friend, and he used that word loosely as if it could morph to 'pain in my ass' at any moment, but half an hour every Friday was only enough to insure Harley that he wasn't dead. Occasionally they'd fit in an argument, but mostly their half an hour consisted of Dean telling him about all the nasty things that managed to beat him up.

That started a month ago, but he'd moved on from stressing about things in the shop or about the house to stressing about school. Muggle school. To be more specific, Muggle high school with no familiar faces, shallow teenagers, and a superficial hierarchy he was probably going to damage in some way.

After he'd woken up had his customary cup of coffee, which was steadily becoming two, with Bobby and Missouri, who still hadn't left. They'd had a simple breakfast that basically consisted of instant oatmeal and toast, and they went their separate ways to get dressed.

The first sign of panic came when Harley realized he didn't know what to wear. The Sales Girl, so long ago that he didn't even recall her name, he only remember her as The Sales Girl, had insisted that all of his clothes went well together and he wouldn't get made fun of for any of them. He still had his cast too, which made things a little more difficult. Jeans, he knew that much, and eventually he came across Dean's old Led Zeppelin shirt. He struggled with a hoodie, pushed one sleeve above his cast for better scratching access, and pulled everything together with a pair of converse. He was simple, comfortable, and he would have changed two or three more times in uncertainty if Bobby hadn't called him to the library. Life was certainly easier when he had to wear a uniform.

He wasn't allowed to take his magically expanding bag of wonder, because it would cause too many questions like 'where the hell are you keeping all of that?' Instead he was gifted with a worn out satchel that used to belong to someone, many years before. He was allowed to magically expand one pocket, so long as it was password protected and he only used it for emergency weapons. Bobby's good-natured fretting wasn't helping his nerves at all.

Neither were his careful reminders on the short drive from the Salvage Yard to the high school. It was in comfortable walking distance of the public library, two decent restaurants, and a coffee shop. Bobby instantly warned him not to spend all of his pocket money on caffeine, because he didn't want to deal with a hyper midget at the end of the day.

Then he kicked him out of the truck with further instructions to find the attendance office, they were expecting him, and to learn something. He'd be back at four, be careful, and have a good day.

Then he cut off some lady in the car pool lane and Harley was well and truly alone, in a foreign country, for the first time. He stood, staring up at the brick building for possibly too long, until some country boy shoulder checked him and he was jolted back to reality.

The fear of the unknown left him quickly enough and he handled the situation of a new school the way he handled the Chamber of Secrets and the Tri-Wizard Tournament, making the best of what clues he had, and glaring at anyone who started whispering and pointing at him. He could do this, he told himself over and over again, as he eventually found the office he was looking for and stared down the secretary at the front desk like she were a dragon and he needed that golden egg.

He walked straight up to her desk, he could face this stranger, and said "hullo," rather politely.

The woman looked down her nose at him, but her prevailed, "can I help you?" as if she were talking to any ordinary, disrespectful teenager. Little did she know Harley was British, and he could flatter her with manners and everything.

"I apologize for interrupting, but my dad told me to check in here. My name is Harley Singer." It wasn't the first time he'd introduced himself by his new name, but he was still happy as all hell when he got to say it.

The woman looked at him suspiciously, taking a moment to make assumptions about his cast, and Harley wasn't surprised. He knew well enough that the town thought his dad was a drunk, which wasn't entirely untrue, but he didn't have the best reputation. She got to business eventually, and pulled out a file of papers. One was the schedule Bobby had made up for him, taking into consideration he didn't know shit about non-magical subjects like their history or science in general, and keeping in mind subjects that would further help with his hunter an other training. The secretary handed that over without a word, but insisted on explaining how lockers worked in detail. Harley was sure she was a little backwards. When she was done assuming he was stupid she called out for an office aid, and went back to whatever it was she was doing on the computer. She was rather rude.

Only a moment later someone his own age came bounding out of one of the back offices. Her pink hair was shocking, and a little blinding, and her clothes matched. She gave him a once over, pausing a moment to stare at his healing in impolite fascination, and then raking over the rest of him. Then she smiled and moved into his personal space. "Hello," she said in a rather chipper voice. "I'm PB, that's Mrs. Rheinbach, she's always busy. I'm going to give you the tour," she explained.

She extended a hand for Harley to shake, and he noticed her nails weren't French tipped like Petunia's or bitten down like Hermione's. They were carefully painted zebra stripes, and amusing to look at. "Harley," he replied just a split second later. She didn't let go of his hand though, and gripped tighter as she swiped his information off of the desk and bounced out of the office while pulling him along for the ride.

PB, last name unknown, didn't tell him about that portrait or who donated money to build the auditorium. Instead she told him which one of his teachers was going to be a bitch and who would be awesome. "Oh, and you have second lunch like I do. You can eat with my friend and I. We're not popular or anything, an Pascal is sort of a douche sometimes, but he probably says the same thing about me." He liked her honesty and took her up on the invitation.

"I don't get it though," she said when they were about to part ways, "You have advanced English classes, the ridiculously hard math class, and all of your extra classes are pretty challenging. You've got like, the easiest history and human anatomy as a science. What's up with that?"

"They don't really teach American history in Scotland, now do they?" Harley countered with a hint of cheek. He decided he liked her upbeat personality, and really appreciated that she didn't come across like a gossip whore.

"Scotland, seriously? Yeah, we definitely have to be friends," and with that she hugged him. Honestly just got right up in his personal space and pressed her breasts against his chest. He did his best not to flinch, but started to fidget after only a few seconds. "dude," she said politely, reminding him of Dean, "you're going to have to learn to enjoy a hug." She obviously couldn't think of anything else she needed to say and nudged him in the direction of first period, freakishly hard English class. "Well, I'll see you at lunch," she told him, and danced down the hallway in a flurry of hot pink and black.

Freakishly Hard English, as it was now cemented in his mind, wasn't really that hard at all. The teacher even agreed to allow for his different spelling habits because he was British, but wanted to see an understanding of American form before the end of the semester. Then she made him introduce himself to the entire class, of strangers he added. PB was easy, she was only one person and odd enough for him to understand. The group of strangers were judging though, and their eyes made him very uncomfortable. He stuttered out his name, his favorite book (because the teacher had asked, and it was 'The War of Wizards' by James Evans) and took his assigned seat in the second to last row.

Ridiculously Hard Math was second, and that teacher did the same. As did the Stupid History teacher, and the Interesting History of Music Instructor (who admired his authentic concert tee that he'd won from Dean, who probably stole it). Finally, after a morning of taking very detailed notes and attempted to ignore all of the stares, and keeping an ear out for someone named 'Pascal' like PB suggested, he finally, _finally_ was released for lunch.

Just like the odd pink girl said, she did see him during lunch, and she ignored his personal space to usher him into a crowd that sort of resembled a bunch of lines all mashed into a small space. At least, it seemed like they knew where they were going. She paid for his lunch, very kind of her and he wondered what the hell she wanted, and when they were finally released from the pressure of an over populated lunch room they made a bee-line for a grassy knoll just outside of the science buildings.

There PB introduced him to Pascal, her brain twin apparently. He was hansom in the same way PB was pretty, head to toe on contracts of neon and black. There were piercing and dyed hair, and a static sexuality about them both. Pascal didn't say anything as PB dragged Harley to the ground between them, he just wanted his fucking burrito already.

Harley's day seemed to be looking up.

That was, until it wasn't anymore. After lunch was a physical education class that could pass for attempted murder, but at least he didn't have to introduce himself. Then Anatomy for Pretentious Wankers, and finally his auto shop class, during which the instructor talked down on him and scoffed at him when he tried to explain his dad actually owned an auto shop, so surely he must have an inkling of what a radiator looked like.

Naturally, he treated himself to coffee afterwards. He braved the fake vintage clad mob that held onto pretend hardships and complaints of petty matters for his large ("That's venti, kid," the clerk had the nerve to correct him) black coffee and 'I'll pour my own damn sugar.' PB and Pascal had followed, curious to see where he was going with such determination. Pascal told him his coffee addiction was cute, and Harley was torn between stabbing him and returning the flirtations until he caught sight of Bobby's truck just out front.

Thank Merlin his day was over, even though a part of him held on to the hope that Dean would show up at the last minute and pretend he was going to march up to the auto shop teacher to give him a piece of his mind or congratulate him on meeting a couple of kids that might turn out to be as weird as he is. They'd know it wasn't true, but the jokes would be uplifting.

He'd have to do it all again the next day too, he thought as he climbed into the cab of Bobby's old truck.

"How was your day?" Bobby meant as an invitation to tell him it was 'fine' or 'shit' like the Winchester boys used to. Instead he watched as his boy-daughter inhaled sharply in a huff, then another huff, and he puffed out his cheeks. Bobby counted to four before Harley released his breath and launched into a full blown bitch-fest about how everyone in Sioux Falls Public High School was just a dick in the collected factory meant to fuck him over.

He didn't even stop in his diatribe when Bobby reached their home, and Harley hopped out of the cab and made his way to his room to do his damn homework. He lamented about the stupidity in his English class and the no-good idiots who thought they were better than him because they were bigger in his P.E. hour. He tossed his satchel onto the bed and continued his tirade into the bathroom, He was intent on washing the public school off of his hands, but while he reached for the side of the cabinet to search for his aspirin his hand slipped against the old metal frame and burst.

Harley calmed instantly, realizing his anger made him careless. He already knew he was supposed to be careful because the cabinet was old and the frame had bits of metal sticking out. With his uninjured hand he turned the tap on cold and began the process of evaluating the injury. It wasn't looking good and he wished he hadn't let go of his self-control. Hell, he just wished he had a friend to talk to, and his magic reached out to the blood swirling down the drain and the blood still clinging to the mirror as if to call it back. When he thought of Ron and Hermione though, it shifted to something else, it seeped into the mirror and there was a face.

Ron hadn't changed much in the two weeks since the last group message was sent to him through the goblins. Harry hadn't expected his magic to work like that though, to convert the mirror into some sort of scrying device. He certainly didn't except to drop in on Ron while he was brushing his teeth.

Ron didn't expect it either, and he let out surprised swears from around his toothbrush. "Warn a bloke when you're going to try out some new magic thing," Ron advised, foam still dripping from his chin. He cleaned up while Harry was still look on in confusion.

"I didn't mean to," Harry said a bit defensively. He was certainly happy to see Ron though, and be able to talk to him face to face. "I was just having a rough day and my magic got away from me."

"Well, it happens," Ron replied, even though that wasn't necessarily true. Odd things happening around Harry was just normal though, the only sure thing in a cloud of uncertainty. Ron would probably freak out later, in private, anyway. "You started school, yah? You said in your last letter it starts in August over there."

Harry was rapidly coming down from his seat amongst the shit storm and nodded. "People are stupid," he said, because he'd used up all of his creative insults on the way home.

"Compared to you, almost everyone is stupid," Ron told it was it was, "finding Hermione was just a stroke of luck, which was great. Mind you, if you two had been left without one another you likely would have gone crazy." He didn't mention himself, even though Harry thought he was clever in his own way.

Harry just nodded, and he didn't mention how he may have found a niche between PB and Pascal to hide in until his time in high school was up. He didn't mention how Dean was far, far away and how he wanted him to come home to the Salvage Yard. He didn't even mention how Bobby was probably just as nervous as he was. Instead he asked about how Ron was doing, because that's what he really wanted to know.

"Dumbledore's still tearing his way through all of his contacts, looking for you," Ron said immediately, "All of us in the know are still clouding the crystal bal. It's a bit fun actually. It's also kind of nice, being on the same side as Snape for once, and it's funny when all of his ire isn't directed on you. He and Sirius are still at each others throats though." Harry hadn't really expected those two to be any different.

Ron carefully avoided mentioning Cedric Diggory while he updating Harry on everyone. Apparently the Twins really missed him, not that they actually said that, but Ron told him how they had being trying to find a new sound board for their ideas only to find that no one had the insight that Harry did. Which was ridiculous, because Harry was pretty sure Ginny would make a good outside party. Hermione and Remus had practically locked themselves in the library, sometimes dragging Neville with them. Some of the independent shop keepers in Diagon Alley were using a bit of magic to disguise themselves as him, and would slink around in busy hours just to throw Dumbledore off. Snape had even asked him questions about Potions Roulette, and actually paid attention as Ron went through the pains of explaining a lot of the backwards rules.

"I still can't believe he hasn't killed us for it," Ron said happily, "and I bet we'll be much better at in than the stinkin' Slytherins."

"Well, yeah. You've had way more practice," Harry agreed gleefully.

They lapsed into silence for a moment before Ron spoke up again. "You should call like this again…but not too soon, otherwise people will start asking why I'm spending extra time in the bathroom. Fred and George might make horrible jokes about it."

"I will," Harry promised, "next week? I might need a little time to figure out how it works. I bet Bobby has a book or two about it."

"Bobby's our new dad, right?" Ron asked and Harry nodded proudly, "he seems smart."

"He is," Harry insisted, "he's a bit like Hermione and Remus, only he cares more about information he can actually use." Harry didn't mention that Bobby knew at least four languages, and all there was about cars, or how his dad knew all sorts of fun and illegal things. He just smiled.

"I gotta go," Ron said as soon as someone started pounding on the bathroom door. It was probably Ginny, since Harry knew she was always the most impatient when it came to her nighttime routines. "Next week."

Harry reached up with wet hands and wiped the blood away, hoping that would break the connection, and it did. Ron's face was gone and his own eyes were staring back at him, carrying a lot less weight than when he'd first stormed into the bathroom.

A moment later Bobby was hollering for him to come downstairs, he had a phone call, and just this once was he going to be ungrounded long enough to tell Dean about his horrible, horrible day.

**Bonus POV**

Peace Blossom Hughes was possibly the most unhappy about her mothers 'free love' lifestyle, if only because her mother had been high as a kite and actually named her 'Peace Blossom.' Even her grandmother couldn't claim that kind of emotional pain. She could try but PB would always win out.

There were some good things about her mother's hippie life that PB liked to take advantage of. For instance, the entire 'free love' mentality meant she didn't have to hide controversial truths away from her parents. Mostly because she didn't' know who her father was and her mother took everything in stride and was proud when PB explored life, independence, and sexuality.

PB was especially fond of exploring sexuality. She was unashamed, happy, and always willing to learn. Pascal, who's mother was always drunk and who's father was always away on business (he really means 'affair'), was the right partner to have and matched her in every way. They were perfect for each other, they were brain twins. They were each others firsts, for pretty much everything.

Then they met Harley Singer.

It had been months since school started, well -two and a half, if they were going to be specific, and she generally was. Harley had been adorable from day one, and that didn't fade at all as she and Pascal took him into their arms and doted on him like dedicated girlfriend and boyfriend.

That's just what they became too, in only a short period of time.

She knew there was something dark and terrible in his past, she could feel it every time she hugged him and see it in his eyes as he evaluated her appearance daily. If it had been anyone else she would have accused him of being a controlling bastard, but Harley wasn't looking at her to see if she were dressed to his standards, when he traced her frame he seemed to be looking for differences. He found them, of course he would, because she was outgoing and happy and Pascal always said that was weird for someone their age.

PB let him know though, that touching was okay. She would wrap her arms around Pascal and he would return the gesture, then she would pull Harley in. At first he was resistant, and she didn't think he realized what he was doing, but with every hug she let him know it was okay and she wasn't going to hurt him.

Then Pascal started kissing him across the cheek or briefly at the corner of his mouth, and she followed. After that he started to hug them back. Following those accomplishments Harley started to spend a couple of hours at her house, after school. He never spend the night, not even at Pascal's house, but they wouldn't ever ask him to. He was much too fearful.

She tracked the progress though. By the second month he would come to them for a hug, even though he never asked out loud. Usually he stayed closer to Pascal, an PB's feeling that a woman had been the one to hurt him was sure, but she didn't comment on it. He was only healing with every hug. He learned to ask for space when he wanted it, and PB learned to accept that sometimes he needed a bit of time to process everything and work on healing himself.

It was pretty clear to both her and her brain twin that the depth of Harley Singer's hurt was a little beyond them, but he was adorable and once they got to know him the was funny and probably a genius. They liked having him around, and touching and holding him felt like a privilege that neither one of them wanted to give up.

Eventually they started to enjoy more. Snogging, was what Harley called it. Pascal liked it because it was so close to 'Singing,' and all of them flat out just enjoyed the actual activity.

It wasn't serious though, Harley told them once, which they already knew. He wouldn't say why, but neither one of them was stupid, they knew he had someone special who just happened to be out of the picture. They were friends though, and they were there to support him and kiss him and eventually do a lot more with him. Besides, just because he already knew who he was going to spend the rest of his life with didn't mean that they couldn't have a bit of him first.

That's how they found themselves in the worlds most awesome predicament, ever. With Harley clad in nothing, grasping at the blankets as the trampoline beneath them recoiled continuously. Harley didn't even want to know why there was a trampoline in her room, but he was grateful for it.

PB kept the lights on, and Pascal said her name often (not that she ever had to remind him to, because he would have bellowed it regardless, but both wanted Harley to remember that she wasn't whatever woman kept haunting his nightmares). He could see her, he could hear her talking to him softly, he could smell her and the sweat and the sandalwood incense. Just the same he could feel Pascal moving above him, feel his hard muscles, tug on a piercing or run fingers through pink or blue hair.

PB made sure they took good care of him, made sure he knew he was loved and appreciated and respected. In a rare moment she was glade her mother was a hippie, even if that meant her name would be Peace Blossom and not something normal, because that meant she had free love to pass on to someone who needed it. Screw normalcy anyway, she was happy to have her two boys on a trampoline, just the way they were.

* * *

**To the Masses:**

That trampoline idea totally came from Dharma and Greg.

I didn't get too in-depth about PB and Pascal because they're not going to be around that long. Umm…yup, that's all I have down for chapter 16. Chapter 17 aught to be fun, because Dean returns and I really like goblins.

Thank you and if you review, please do so in complete sentences, if you don't mind.

Alzipher


	17. Chapter 17

**To the Masses:** Sadly, the only reason I'm sitting down and committing myself to writing this chapter is because I'm avoiding my final essay for one of my history classes. Just like last quarter. I do have some good news though! I'll be taking the summer off to catch up on working on the house and maybe get a job (if I can find one…no luck so far). Even if I do spend all day long painting and such, I'll still have more time to write for BS than I would if I were taking classes…that's kind of depressing.

So, here is the long awaited chapter 17. Which, by popular demand, is a quick look-see at what Dean has been up to while he and Harry are apart. It disrupts my initial timeline a little, but whatever.

**Note**: my e-mail has been a little…untrustworthy. That's a nice way of putting it. So some of my alerts have been misfiled under Spam, and I'm sorry if I haven't replied to your review or message yet.

Warnings: Same as before.

Disclaimer: I don't own this shit here. This shit here, I don't own.

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen (A Very Dean Interlude)**

_Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you like hell. ~Edna St Vincent Millay_

The first few, very recognizable notes of Thunderstruck rang through the tiny hotel room before Dean's hand wrapped around his cell phone, and deft fingers silenced the alarm. He pulled his cell hone towards him, but didn't open his eyes until he was sure the first thing he would see was the screen of his new phone -the last had been fried when a ghost phased through him. It had been a very uncomfortable sensation, Dean assures.

Moss colored eyes instantly focused on the message alert, and before he could fully comprehend the name of the person who had sent the text, his thumb pressed down on the button to open it. Sure enough, it had been Harry with his first thought of the day. Well, one that didn't revolve around coffee. He didn't know what to wear, apparently. The young hunter-in-training hadn't said anything but Dean could tell he was trying to impress someone. It was cool, it wasn't like Dean told him every single little thing either.

Only when he tapped out a reply, telling Harry to stop being such a girl and don't forget to put underwear on, and then hit the 'send' button, did Dean look past his phone and towards his old man.

John Winchester sat at the tiny kitchenette table, papers spread out all around him, and his journal open to his right. He hadn't been bothered by the blatant display that Dean showed towards the boy, to the naked eye at least. However, Dean could see the tension around his eyes and in his movements.

Dean knew his dad kind of liked the kid, because he was a brain, inventive, and terrified of John. Dean was sure John may have even accepted the runt with open arms -if they hadn't run off, that is.

Running off wasn't' the actual issue. Dean was twenty-three, he could take off whenever he wanted. John just liked to know his general location and what he was hunting. Sure, John was a little controlling, but they were also hunters. The job in itself was a dangerous life-career, and usually required backup. In fact, Dean would have liked to receive that kind of information from his own family. As it was, Sammy had left them and John didn't think Dean needed to know -it was part of the reason Dean was so receptive to Harry's texts, because the flow of information was so constant, and Harry really was the closest thing he had to a friend.

When the two of them had run off to California John was likely only annoyed. Dean could practically hear the petty comments about how Bobby would need to get his kid in control. His annoyance likely skyrocketed when he realized Harry had used his talents to help evade their fathers. When he and Bobby tracked them to California, John probably assumed they had gone to meet Sammy, which John had expressly forbidden to moment his little brother left. When Dean finally gave his mission report John was nearly unresponsive -he was that angry.

John understood letting the kid go, because they didn't kill kids, but Dean was a disappointment for letting the mother live. In John's mind, she must have killed humans by the hundreds and escaped detection because everything south of the border was less organized, or some such. Dean was a let-down for not seeing that though, and he made a point of not mentioning that to Harry.

The truest reason of why he couldn't go home to Bobby's and his midget was because John couldn't stand to see either of them. Harry was believer that those monsters deserved to be tried like everyone else, that they could do good too. To John, a monster was a monster and they should be killed, and anyone who sided with them deserved the same fate. John saw just how close the two boys were, it was evident in the way they'd been texting back and forth since Harry had been ungrounded, and he didn't want his only remaining son to be corrupted.

Dean knew all of this, but he would never disobey his father, so he tried his best to keep his conversations with Harry on the down-low and he chose uncomfortable silence over a conversation that may eventually have led into talking about Harry, how Harry was doing at school, if Harry was making friends, what Harry thought about all of the new American things he was discovering. The only time Dean was allowed to mention Harry, or Harley, was when they were as low as they could get in a case, and even then his dad's eyes would darken in anger. Dean liked to imagine that he more help Harry was, the less likely his father was to stake him the next time he spared a monster.

Dean pushed the negative thoughts out of his head. He wanted to set a positive tone for the day, and so he turned his thoughts to the blonde from the night before. She's been tall, but not taller than him, busty, she liked all the same music he did, and she was the right about of freaky in the back seat of her Mercedes. Sure, it was a chick care, but it was a Benz. It was girls like her that occasionally made him wish he could settle down in just one place for like, maybe a month or so. Just enough time for them to try out some of the better positions, and maybe in a bed. With thoughts of her taut stomach and the soft swell of her hips, he rolled out of bed and made his way to the shower.

His shower time was a private event, but when he finished he dressed in his usual ensemble of jeans and a t-shirt. He took his daily vitamin, which Harry had sent a bottle of only a couple of weeks ago when Dean was teasing him about having to take nutritional supplements, but didn't bother to shave. Without his stubble he looked like a baby, and that was not alright. By the time he finished with his morning routine he'd received a reply from Harry, about how he thought his day would go. Harry had training most evenings, with either Missouri or the Canadian elf that would show up at random intervals, and that training had increased in difficulty every sense he came clean about his weekly mirror conversations with one of his British friends. Dean replied that he thought his own day would be pretty rad, because they were closing in on the spirit that had been targeting kids around Harry's age, and maybe John would let him return to the Salvage Yard for a little break.

Directly after he cleaned himself up and armed himself, he left the hotel without so much as a word to his father. It was his turn to get breakfast and he knew it, so he left quietly and headed towards his Impala. By the time he had buckled his seatbelt Harry had returned his sentiments and asked if he knew what they were looking for yet, and when he looked up again there was an owl perched on his side view mirror. Instead of unleashing a few choice words Dean rolled the window down and reached for the letter attached to it's leg. He'd become increasingly familiar with the way the goblins handled things, because he was interested in money and finding out what he could make for all the things they hunted.

Their last case had been a crazy witch who had been creating salamanders that, in turn, were lighting fire just outside of Detroit. They killed all of the offending fire-setters, but three of the carcasses were in good enough condition to sell to the goblins for a pretty penny. Probably the best thing about the goblins, were their secret-keeping abilities, because even if the government did try to trace their money the race of stout warriors would sooner decapitate themselves than give away any information. Dean was assured that they would even go as far as to block their account numbers if they were even poked by the wrong person.

John didn't really like the goblins, but they seemed civil. A little blood thirsty, but civil, and someone named Rageshock had sent his old man a forty page transcript of something called the Goblin Understudy Act of 1783. Dean just wished he was that receptive to what happened in California.

The letter of the day was the total sum for all for all of the salamander parts, and they forwarded a request from several people about keeping in closer contact so that they could have first pick, rather than making auctions open to the general public, and a few requests for specific monster bits. According to their bank manager, it was illegal to kill a fire salamander in quite a few countries. Dean recognized one name specifically, a Severus Snape that Harry had mentioned once or twice. Apparently he taught potions for the cult school he used to go to. He would have to talk that over with his old man and the Singers before he approved of anything, but Dean didn't see a problem with showing a little bit of favoritism.

The owl didn't bother to wait for Dean to reply at the moment, it just flew into the nearest tree. Those smart birds had learned quickly that they weren't allowed in Dean's car, because a few had tried. He didn't even like them in the general vicinity of his baby, but he and the bank owls had come to a compromise. They could land on the side view mirrors and he wouldn't hurt them, and in return they wouldn't unleash a flock's worth of poop on the shiny black metal.

Dean tucked the letter into the visor and put his car in reverse. Dean didn't text Harry about the bank's letter, because he'd prefer to talk it out over the phone later, when they were done with the case. He could even use it as an excuse to go back to Bobby's, if he worked just the right angle.

He got some shitty McDonalds breakfast combo's because there were no diners worth their salt in the area. A true tragedy, according to the Winchesters, but whatever. Dean returned to the hotel with their food and that mornings local and national news papers. His father had already got his own copies, but he always marked them up so densely that Dean had a hard time reading them. He set everything down on the table, before taking a seat himself.

Dean was never above holding a conversation by himself, but the last few months had been tense so he'd started to wait for John to initial things. "What we're looking at is a thing that can disguise itself as a woman, who lures in young boys," John recapped, "and all these young men are students of the same school, none of them are friends, but all of them have a record with the school."

"Right, so we're looking at the guidance councilor," Dean filled in around a mouth full of pancakes. They'd discussed everything the night before. "She's probably luring them in with that Hot For Teacher act of hers. She's already killed four. You think she's gunning for a fifth?"

"Monsters don't stop until someone makes them," John said gravely, and he wasn't necessarily wrong. What Dean was getting at was a little deeper than that. He knew four couldn't be a significant number since the killings were so violent, which left five or seven. What he really wanted to ask was what John thought her end game was, and what set her off to kill those boys. He'd fed the details to Bobby the night before, and they were curious to see if the methods and the victims pointed to anything specific. It was cool if they didn't have any solid leads, because beheading usually worked, but it would be nice if there was an easier way to go about it.

Their goal for the day was to scope out the guidance councilor, and to follow her when she followed a kid home. The Winchesters usually felt better if they could catch a monster in the act, because that was when they stopped pretending to be human and the hunter would know for sure, without a single doubt, that the thing they were going to behead wasn't human.

Dean's phone vibrated against his leg. It was a single pulse, that let him know it was a text, and since the only person he texted was Harry he waited until they were done eating to excuse himself. He'd wash his hands in the bathroom before replying again, still away from John's strong gaze. Unsurprisingly, the message would be the last until school was over, but it was an excited proclamation that Lolanillel had returned and they would be covering something new that evening. With a final 'good luck' Dean shoved his phone into his pocket with the resolve not to check needlessly, until at least four o'clock. He needed to concentrate on the job, and he knew his father no longer found his fiddling endearing.

John was already armed to his teeth and was headed to the door just as Dean was leaving the bathroom. Dean wasn't in a rush to follow him, since they would both be taking separate cars. John would take his truck, Dean would drive his baby, and they would split up to cover both parking lots of the campus. John would squat in an empty house just outside one end of the campus, that overlooked the back parking lot, and Dean would camp out at a café type bookstore at the other end.

The time away from his fathers silent but persistent fury would do him some good, he decided, even if he wasn't overly fond of bookstores. He was sure the Singers would have liked the detail more than him, but Bobby would spend most of his time discrediting the supposed experts on mythology and history than enjoying it, and Harry would drink so much coffee he'd have to pee every five minutes.

Dean bought himself a large ("I don't give a fuck what you call it, just give me the biggest damn one you have," and it was a damn shame that he had to explain that), he picked out a decent number of books, so that he would at least look like he was occupied, and settled in to a chair.

After only an hour Dean began to actually read one of the books propped in front of him. It was something about Nordic gods that he'd heard mention of before. Some of the stories were actually pretty interesting, and before he'd realized what he was doing he'd taken out the tiny notebook he used for fake-police work and had made notes on several interesting stories he'd no doubt share with Harry later. He never forgot his job though, and his eyes scanned the parking lot regularly, almost as if he were waiting for someone. He just hoped the college student behind the counter thought it was for one of the teaches, and no students would be molested. Then lunch time rolled around and students began doing what teenagers did best. Loitering.

Closed campus or not, it was always inevitable that some students would sneak out from under the faculty's watchful eyes. Kids snuck into cars to get a quickie in before math, science, or whatever class that would bring an end to their happy-fun time. They hugged the walls to the east because they were less likely to be caught while getting a smoke in, shirts disappeared as skins played the shirts in a half a game of football. Those were the good days, sort of, Dean thought. At that age he was in such a rush to get out of school that he didn't sit down to enjoy all the free time, but he did enjoy the girls.

Across the country Harry would probably be starting his lunch, sitting with those friends he'd told Dean about briefly. Only briefly because they were either not all that interesting or he was sleeping with one of them and didn't want Dean to know about it. He hadn't managed to figure out how to ask subtly, because he usually took the more direct approach, but if he bluntly asked Harry the kid was likely to retreat into his shell. That, or he'd hang up on him. It wouldn't be the first time.

The crowd of young people had congregated in the store, probably for the overpriced food. They'd go back to their friends later and be worshiped as bad-ass for traveling all the way across the parking lot even though it was against the rules. Dean was sort of amused, but also hated the kids for their ignorance. The shallow little bastards had already made this job harder than it had to be, and it was just his luck that one of those tragically misunderstood rich kids took a seat right across from him and disrupted the view of the parking lot.

"Hullo," the kid said excitedly, as if initiating conversation with a stranger would be the coolest thing he did all day. Knowing kids, and especially knowing himself at that age, he'd go back to his friends and tell them all about the 'college' kid he'd chatted up at the bookstore. "I'm London."

"Dear god, save me," Dean whispered under his breath. In just those three short words Dean could tell the kid was currently experimenting with a British accent to go along with his pretentious place-name. The kid was short and thin, too thin to be healthy and he knew that because he'd studied the Body Mass Index for as long as it took for him to determine how much weight Harry had to gain. The kid's clothes were carefully coordinated with those drawn on shoes. He had more holes than the last time he got hit with buck shot, and he'd drawn crude designs along the inside of his arms. What was it with kids drawing on themselves, Dean wondered.

A quick glance around and Dean could see his friends peaking at them from around bookshelves, one girl was trying not to giggle and another one looked vaguely murderous. So yeah, it was a popularity move and Dean didn't like to be used that way.

"What school do you go to?" The kid who was grating on his nerves asked. Dean really didn't appreciate the way the his foot was rubbing against his shin, so he let his face fall into the familiar stoic expression that all hunters are capable of. The boy's foot immediately stopped, whether or not the kid realized it he was put off by the closed off look.

"I'm just passing through, on my way back home," Dean offered up, his eyes were carefully empty, but his lips quirked into an almost friendly smile. "I'm just waiting for my cousin, before I move on."

The kid took that as an invitation to smile back and continue the conversation, "What's his name, maybe I know him." Dean knew this London kid was just looking for common ground, to keep him talking, because Dean used that tactic on particularly prudish girls. Dean cursed the hunt when he saw an opportunity gather information, because the kid's face accent reminded him of Harry's genuine lilt and he didn't want to associate the two boys in any sort of way.

"Her name's Joyce Beckett," Dean lied. However, he did meet her the day before. She was a lonely brunette who could really have some fun if she just let her hair down once in a while, and got rid of those terrible horn rimmed glasses. She'd resisted his charm, but seemed very kind. Dean figured she was just shy and probably a bit jaded.

The kid stiffened just a bit, just as Dean thought he would. As a librarian, Joyce Beckett was probably one of the least liked members of the faculty. If Dean's memories were as accurate as he was sure they were, librarians struggled to maintain a quiet haven for studying and other nerdy things -which meant loud children, and generally the kids that didn't want to study or read, were hushed and ushered out of the library. That created a bubble of tension around said librarian, that only other book lovers could penetrate. So the kid could find something nice to say or he could try and change the subject.

He took the second option and glanced down at what Dean was reading. "You must be really smart," and okay, Dean could preen a little under that, falsehood or not, "that's like, so obscure."

"Yeah," Dean gave an uncommitted agreement. "You know, my cousin said there'd be some trouble around here, so I didn't want her to have to be all alone." That implied that he might have to stick around, which was true. So long as they didn't get any indication that the monster had fled they would stick around until she was dead.

The kid was sort of just happy to know something that he didn't, and was happy to help. "Yeah, but she's fine and all. It's guys like me that need the protection," he flirted. Why on earth he would use his own personal well being, Dean didn't -okay, he did know. Girls did it all the time, it was the 'oh, please keep me warm to night' routine. It just looked really stupid when a guy did it, and it looked even more ridiculous because the kid was so young. He caught sight of the college kid behind the counter and almost laughed at the strained look he was making.

"Then you'd probably help yourself by, I don't know, not hitting on random strangers." That was a blow, and it would probably shut down the communication highway before Dean could learn anything new. He was still trying to fight his annoyance for the cause, but it wasn't really working. Kids could be so stupid sometimes. He was glad that Bobby's kid wasn't like that at all. Then again, Harry was a hunter-in-training, and that cultivated a certain mentality. At that thought Dean just couldn't take it anymore, he needed to shake the kid. "You know, my girlfriend's from Surrey," small lie, no problem.

The kid shut down and the college kid clutched his side to try and hold in the laughter, "Oh yeah? Never heard of it." London, Dean gagged a bit at the name, said while still pressing the fake accent.

"Really? It's just outside of London, England," Dean teased, "so I think I'd know a real British accent when I hear one, and yours is pretty bad." One of his friends from the back started outright laughing, but the guy behind the counter managed to hold it in for the sake of business. The kid who had been hitting on him stood up rather abruptly and left without a word, his comrades trailing behind him.

One girl, the giggle-box from the very beginning, lingered behind. Dean rolled his eyes and mentally prepared himself for round two when she began, "Agent," which was a shock, because people didn't usually confuse him with law enforcement. The giggle-box glanced down and realized that maybe, the trained eye, she could make out the outline of his gun. "My dad's a cop," she admitted with a shrug, like she already knew what he was so worried about. The FBI was in town, now that Dean thought about it. They'd made getting the autopsy reports very difficult. "Sorry about my friend," she added carefully, and he was amused to note that she said friend the same way Harry said it, as if it could mean something else in a split second. She looked like she wanted to say something more, but held back.

"Whatever you want to tell me, even thought it sounds crazy, could help." He knew sometimes there were things kids just couldn't say to their dads, stuff their dad's didn't want to hear, even if their kid fourteen or twenty-three.

"It's just," she struggled a bit, "Miss Beckett, you mentioned her earlier and she's a really nice lady. Just last month she was helping me with my semester thesis, but then she started to ignore me and some of the other students. Like she forgot all about us. Then she seemed a little overeager to help London, instead of chasing him out like she usually did. She started dressing differently too. My dad said it's because her husband left her, but if that was the case she would have done all of that months ago."

"Sometimes," Dean replied wisely, "it just takes a bit of time for things to sink in. I'll check her out though," Dean assured, but he was confused about why he was just hearing about that now. They'd already questioned the faculty, discreetly, and no one had mentioned any sudden attitude shifts. Perhaps though, they all just thought it was because she was depressed. "Thanks," Dean added, and took a sip of his neglected coffee. Before she could leave though, Dean pulled a fake FBI card out of his pocket and handed it to the girl, "if you think of anything else, and you can rub your little friends face in it."

The girl took the card, giggled, and left.

When she was gone the guy behind the counter finally let it all out, and he was howling in laughter as Dean left the table to call his dad from outside.

His dad answered on the third ring, but didn't bother to give any indication that he'd answered at all. That was usual though, so Dean just reiterated what the girl had said and added that maybe they were on the wrong tail. John wasn't so inclined to believe him, because he probably thought Dean's judgment had been compromised in California. "No, we follow the guidance councilor as planned," and he hung up, which was also normal for John. Dean was so beaten down by the constant lack of trust since July that he didn't even try to call John back and argue his point.

"Yeah, yeah," Dean complained, and headed back inside the store with a slightly defeated slump in his shoulders.

He didn't notice until he sat down, but there was a fresh coffee sitting next to his first one. He glanced over at the coffee maker, who spoke first. "It's on the house. I'm just glad your not a pedophile. I was about to call the cops."

"Well, thanks anyway," Dean replied, and went about keeping watch more openly before, now that he wasn't worried about trying to be discreet. He should work on it anyway, but until then he had a cover story. If he hadn't been able to keep such an avid eye on the parking lot he may have missed it.

The librarian that had made it to the top of his suspect list in less than two sentences scurried to her rust bucket an hour before school let out. She looked like she was in a hurry, but maybe she had an emergency at home. Like, maybe one of her cats got out and maybe was hit by a car. Dean was put between a rock and hard spot. If he kept on the tail of the wrong woman then the one that was going about killing boys would get away and possibly kill again. Except the Librarian made much more sense.

She'd revisited his charms, maybe because she wasn't attracted to him at all. Maybe he was just too old for her tastes. Unlike Susan, that was the guidance councilor, who couldn't be bothered to give two-shits about any of her students, let alone target a specific type. Plus it was just in his gut, he could feel it churning as he watched her look around the parking lot, alarmed.

"Go ahead," the guy said, still behind his counter, "I'll take care of the mess. If it is her, you'd better hurry, yeah?"

"Yeah," Dean agreed, and that was the tiny nudge he needed to get moving. He got out of the store as calmly as he could and made it to, and into his car smoothly. He tried his dad's number, because if this turned out to be the chick his dad needed to know where to find him, and if it wasn't then oh well -too bad. The risks of going in all by himself were far worse than Jahn's version of I-Told-You-So. Even if those were also pretty bad. His dad didn't pick up.

They made it all the way the warehouse district, Dean was to cars behind and alternated between lanes to avoid being made. He thought that was pretty shady, but the apartment set up under a fake ID had already been compromised, so if she wanted a place to kill she'd needed to do it somewhere else. His father still wasn't answering his cell phone though, not even after the fifth try.

Dean only paused long enough to check his weapons. He had both of his guns, the long knife along his spine, and the small black blade against his hip. He tried his dad one last time, but when John didn't answer he left yet another voice mail. Almost as if it were an afterthought, he shot a text to Harry that said 'wish me luck,' knowing that the younger boy would know what he meant.

He crept along the outside of the building until he found a small entrance, lucky for him it was in the form of a large hole in the aluminum and he didn't have to worry about rusted hinges. He checked his surroundings before moving on, navigating his way around the hollowed out cars. Maybe the warehouse had been used as a chop shop before, because the pile of discarded license plates certainly looked ominous. Then he reached the outskirts of what looked to be a living area. A very nicely furnished living area, amidst piles of junk, done in grandiose reds and ivory colors. It was like a valentines day card vomited all over it.

Just a few more steps to the right and he could see Joyce Beckett. He wasn't sure if it was a good or a bad thing, that she'd stripped down to her underwear. Dean certainly appreciated the view, and she certainly did have a rockin' body, but on the other hand she'd been killing boys. "Darling, I'm so glad you could make it," she'd cooed, and that was sort of creepy.

Dean needed to see who she was talking to though, he couldn't be focusing on her rather gifted rack. He cut her out of his line of vision by continuing along the perimeter of her little love nest. He couldn't believe his eyes when he caught sight of the circular bead, piled high with satin fabrics in various shades of red and pink.

There, in the middle of the bed was the annoying little fuck named London. It seemed the kid moved on fast, or maybe was trying to bury the quick rejection in the positive regard and giant bosom of the librarian. Unsurprisingly, he looked over the moon about being there, tied up to the headboard. Dean rolled his eyes, because he really was a stupid kid. The sad part was, Dean probably would have fallen for the same trick, even if he wouldn't be caught dead in those tight ass pants.

One more step and he was directly behind herm and he honestly didn't know how he'd miss a tail. A freakin' tail that ended with just a tuft of hair, kind of like a cow, and a hole. There was giant, gaping hole in her back that was filled with grey, rotten meat and maggots. Dean's skin was crawling. He hated maggots. He needed a plan, an immediate plan of action that ended in her dead, the obnoxious kid returned to his friends, and then a five hour bath. That just wasn't right.

His next step landed on a thin piece of metal that contributed the giant mosaic of rusted parts, and scraped against the ground in a very inconvenient manner. He was totally busted, and he didn't need to look up to know that, but he did anyway and the librarian turned on her heal to face him. Once it hit her that he'd seen her giant gaping hole, her face contorted into an unholy rage. Way worse than that time he'd set fire to Sammy's biology text book. Once she turned though, the kid could see the same thing he had and began screaming. No tact, no pause to contemplate his will to survive, just started screaming his annoying little head off.

Dean didn't even have enough time to tell the kid to cut it out, and the librarian lunged at him. In a way, it was a good thing, because if she hadn't he wouldn't have noticed the line of black across her throat. It was thinner, and a little dimmer, but Dean was sure it was the same as the baby cucuy from those months before. Like, he could feel it in his bones, and he knew what took care of it.

The black knife was in his hand instantly, and he wielded with an uppercut. He hit it dead on, and it nicked her skin a bit, but the black metal clashed to the ground. She stopped mid-step, and Dean felt confident enough to run past her and to the kid on the bed. Still using the knife, he cut through the tacky satin bindings and gave the kid a sound slap across the face just to knock him out of his funk and get him running. "Cool it until we get you out of here," Dean ordered.

The kid began scrambling off the bed when Joyce let out another enraged scream. "You saw it! You saw it!" Dean wasn't sure what she was talking about, but if she meant that giant hole in her back then yeah -he totally saw that, and it was still just as gross as it was the first time he thought of it.

London was off the bed and tried to duck behind some of the wreckage, and Joyce went after him first. Dean did the first thing he could think of and grabbed hold of the tail that was just weird. If he was lucky then it was part of her spine, and if he hacked that off, nerves would pour out and at least slow her down. So he brought his knife down across her tail and it fell limp in his hand, and just like he suspected the thin strings began spilling out like spaghetti. Instead of slowing down though, she turned on him, and went at him with claws that he hadn't seen spring from the tips of her fingers.

She caught him right though his left shoulder, and he was sure they went all the way through. He looked past her and saw that the boy had kept running, which was something at least. She pulled her claws out of him, that bitch, and she may have turned to try and chase the boy down -leaving Dean where he was to die, but a shot rang through the warehouse and her head exploded into a shower of all of those gooey things that made up a persons head plus some nasty maggots.

Dean still had enough strength to push the body so that it didn't land on him. Nastily enough, one hand was still clutching at the cow tail, and he slumped to his knees. "Dude," he said to himself, but there wasn't enough blood left to finish that thought.

John was at his side a moment later, holding Dean up on his uninjured side. "The collar," Dean slurred while trying to wave his injured hand in the right direction.

"I'll get it son," John assured, speaking more softly to Dean than he had in the months prior. "You just stay awake."

"Sure," Dean agreed while still fully intending to close his eyes, "does this mean we can go home now?"

Dean didn't stuck around to hear the answer, because he'd lost too much blood. He'd floated around a dark abyss for a while, but when he came to the first thing he saw were deep green eyes slightly obscured by black fringe.

* * *

**To Those Who Just Read:**

This took way longer than it was supposed to, and now I absolutely have to write my essay. If this chapter has just a shit-ton of errors; fuck it. It can't be any worse than the previous chapters…but if the errors are that bad I'll fix them tomorrow, after I turn in my essay and take that stupid test.

Oh! New rule though! If someone, anyone ever reviews with a chain letter Dean will be stabbed. I was so furious when I got that chain letter that I decided that on the stop, and it was amusing enough to keep.

There were some other things I wanted to say, but yeah -too frenzied to remember them now.

I like quotes, song suggestions, and reviews.

Alzipher


	18. Chapter 18

**To the Masses:** I know it's been a while, but…yeah -I don't have any excuse. I just didn't feel like writing for BS. Now I do, so thanks for sticking with me and the story. To address one of the issues from the previous chapter. I'm never going to claim to be any sort of medical or anatomical expert, or even half competent, so the thing about the nerves -noooooot true. I claim creative liberties with monster anatomy. Yup. There must have been another issue or two. Oh! Flames! There was one mildly insulting review that I discounted as a flame because English wasn't their first language and I figured their culture was far more direct then this mixed one I've got. Another review that I got from someone, I forgot who, but they asked why I didn't have any warnings in the summary -that's because I hate how fan fiction is less about a good story and more about engineering the best porn for a fandom, and I believe that the gratuitous use of tags or warnings only enables us to skip over, what could turn out to be, truly epic works of writing. I'm not going to get any more into it…I actually typed in a really long rant before I thought to myself 'maybe lets try not to be a bitch today.' Also, thanks a million for all of the quotes and song suggestions. Most of you are awesome.

Soundtrack: Hello by Martin Solveig & Dragonette, Filistata by Stolen Babies, and Some Nights by Fun.

Warnings: Same warnings from previous chapters. Too lazy.

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or Supernatural. That's probably a good thing, because I couldn't handle that level of responsibility.

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen**

_"A true friend is someone who thinks that you are a good egg even though he knows that you are slightly cracked," Bernard Meltzer._

Harry was sorry for everything he ever put his friends through. Not the troll killing, escaped convict chasing, Voldemort fighting things. It was all of the times they waited at his bedside while he was injured that he felt he needed to apologize for. He realized that, and it only took ten minutes after the initial rush to get Dean out of his bloody clothes, wrap his shoulders in clean bandages (and not just clean-ish grease rags), and being told no less than four times that Dean was going to be alright and there was no reason to worry, for Harry to realize just how nerve-wrecking the bedside vigil thing actually was. Harry wasn't worrying though, there was no reason for him to worry, Dean was fine, and Harry was sure all of the grown people trying to reassure him were also trying to reassure themselves. Harry was just sitting there because, umm, because -Harry was sure there was an actual reason.

"Drop," a voice said from the doorway, Lolanillel's voice, Harry knew it was coming because he'd felt the elf's energy climbing the stairs. Lolanillel preferred windows, but Bobby had almost shot him twice and Missouri certainly had whacked him over the head with her purse, Home & Garden's September edition, one of her Sunday shoes, a chess board, and Harry's English notebook. He had eventually gotten the point. Harry didn't mind his sneaking so much, because the elf emitted very bright energies. Drop was the shorthand for 'drop into a meditative state' and Harry did what he was told, just long enough to find that calm place in his mind and chill the fuck out. It took ten whole minutes, but it was becoming easier, and when he'd completed the task his eyes opened and wondered back to Dean's unconscious form.

The thing Harry liked about the elf was that he didn't try to tell Harry that the magic-less human that was just lying there, with less blood than he probably should have, would be just fine in the morning -because Harry knew that, Dean would wake up when he was ready to. To reassure Harry of something he already knew, rationally anyway, would be a waste of human words, and Lolanillel thought that English was nasty and crude. Instead he stood inside of the white ring of salt and looked down at the hunter. His sharp, golden eyes saw things that Harry's eyes couldn't, and when he was finished scanning and cataloging Dean's injuries he turned to Harry with a look that clearly spoke of how stupid he thought Harry was being for just sitting there, watching. Doing nothing, wasting his very limited, mortal time. "I'm also studying," Harry replied to the elf's unspoken complaints and held up the text he was reading. It was one of Bobby's older tomes, written in an old Gaelic dialect that Harry sort of-kind of had a grasp of. Just months prior he'd been working on translating a book of a similar nature with Hermione. Yeah though, that meant Harry had been there for a while.

The mentor didn't say anything more, and just turned to walk out of the room again. Now that Harry thought about it, Missouri probably sent him up to check on the two of them. She would have sent Bobby, who had better social skills, and Harry thought that in the same way someone would think Crookshanks was a docile cat compared to a wild mountain lion, but Harry's dad was too busy staring angry and accusing holes into the side of John Winchesters head. Just hours prior to that moment, John had opened a can of rage-worms and had referred to Harry as Bobby's magic pet. He'd actually said it, just like that, he'd said "your fucking magic pet," and it pretty much sounded bad in any context, but the point that John was trying to make was that Harry was less than human and potentially dangerous. John had been okay with Harry when he was just a little boy from Surrey, and his magic had been an abstract thought. It seems that the little California stunt the boys pulled made it seem like Harry was undoing all of the careful training John had put Dean through, and was trying to get them to sympathize with the fucking things. Not killing a kid-monster was fine, but becoming a champion for a kid-monster who was being controlled my another monster and then not ganking his mom when she almost attacked them? Not alright.

The notion was so 'not alright' with John because those fuckers had taken his wife. Harry hadn't known that before, but he'd gleaned the gist while John was yelling and waving and generally just being a dick. He didn't know what or who _exactly _had done it, so he just blamed everyone that wasn't human. There seemed to be concern for victims and potential victims, if they were human, but that only came second to the ever-burning, soul-enveloping need to find who had killed Mary Winchester. Harry thought of Cedric and understood, even though John would never know it, Harry understood. Cedric and he hadn't had any sort of physical relationship, because Harry was too young, too famous, and too not-Cho Chang. However, he'd seen Cedric murdered right before his eyes. His friend, someone he looked up to and admired, was discarded with a simple Latin phrase and the same green light that haunted Harry's nightmares. So yeah, Harry understood a bit of what John had been through, but he couldn't imagine holding on to that much hate. T

Harry reached out with his mind for, what was probably, the fifteenth time in the last few hours. He was trying to find Dean's thoughts, but while he wasn't conscious everything just looked black. Missouri had told him not to use that type of magic unless it was an emergency, like his illness had been, or like how being bound and gagged could be. She said it would be safer that way, because if Harry pressed to hard or twisted his magic a certain way then he could wreck a persons entire being. But it was Dean, and Harry missed the reassuring buzz of the hunters thoughts against his. He still couldn't find anything though, and he dropped into his meditative state before he would work himself up about it.

That time it only too nine minutes and forty six seconds, but when he opened his eyes Dean was still just lying there in his black shorts, white gauze was packed tightly around his chest and injured shoulder. He had other scars, Harry had noticed long before then, but he hadn't been able to really observe the damage while Dean was awake and constantly in a state of motion. There were pale claw marks, crescent shaped bites, old tears. It did something to calm his mind to see that there was someone more scared up that he was. Harry turned his attention back to the book in his lap. He had already finished his high school homework, so there was nothing left to distract his mind from live in general but whatever book he'd picked out. It was technically possible for him to veg in front of a television like the rest of the kids his age, but if he wasn't watching some Dean approved movie with the hunter right next to him to provide commentary then he got restless and annoyed. The memory of the entire Star Wars, original trilogy, which took ours and ours of just sitting and not doing anything productive, despite Dean's opinion that becoming acquainted with the films was something productive, brought Harry's gaze to just over the cover of his book, and to the body in front of him.

The anger wasn't sudden, but it seemed to rejuvenate itself every time Harry checked to see if maybe that would be the moment Dean opened his eyes and then his big mouth. The emotions were so profound that everything began to tremor in the second it took Harry to get a grip on his self-control. He'd already broken a lamp. He'd also fixed it, but that was beside the point. He needed to get a better handle on his anger before John blew another gasket and deemed Harry too dangerous to be around his son. Or did he consider Dean more of a soldier, Harry wondered murderously, then crushed the thought. He needed need to add any more negative thoughts to the one's that already made up his opinion of John Winchester.

Dean was home though. Harry paused and corrected himself. He didn't know where Dean considered home, and it was presumptuous of him to assume it was Bobby's place. Even though Dean hadn't referenced of such a place in their conversations, or mentioned any place with much significance other than the salvage yard and a fondness for Vegas Show Girls. Despite all of the thoughts that Dean was close to him, gave him a running commentary about his day, listened to everything Harry told him, ate all the pie and hogged the bed, and despite that it all seemed like what Ron would call a home-life, Harry reminded himself not to just go ahead and think that such a place was with him and Bobby. He looked back down at the tan page and got through another sentence.

He thought maybe he was projecting those thoughts onto the hunter because of what had happened earlier that week. It would make sense, because Dean had been around just after he'd been freed from the demon and his parents had handed him off to the other hunters, Dean had riled him up and broken him out of the quite, servant-like demeanor that Harry adapted in stressful situations. Dean's charm and immaturity had made it easier for Harry to adapt, and even though he was gone most of the time they still kept in touch and Harry confided in him, so it would be pretty obvious that Dean would be the one that Harry would cling to in times of trouble. Trouble like what PB and Pascal, his first friends at a new school, had gotten into.

Harry didn't even know where to begin explaining what all had happened. He'd wanted to, he really did, but every time he tried to text Dean about it, he just couldn't do it. He thought maybe telling him over the phone would be easier, but then his mind would sputter to a halt and there was just no way he could explain everything that had happened without there being a massive freak out.

He could start simple. PB, Peach Blossom as Pascal had told him between breathless laughter, announced that she could nominate herself for 16 and Pregnant. Apparently that was some sort of television show that glorified teen pregnancy, which only made Harry more glad that he didn't really like watching television, if that was the sort of program that was considered entertaining. Naturally though, Harry and Pascal had congruent heart attacks and it was very possible that Harry's magic may have gotten out of control and blew up some of the water pipes. The closest ones, anyway. Harry could still remember holding his breath and the feeling every one of his thoughts drop out of his mind. Everything but panic, anyway.

The baby wasn't Harry's. The timeline didn't fit, which meant it was Pascals, and yeah -Pascal cried. Just a little bit. Harry wasn't sure if it was because he was happy that he and the other half of his soul were going to have a kid, or because his childhood was over so abruptly. It was probably a mix of both.

"I wanted to tell you guys later, like -way later," PB said later, when the school had been evacuated and they were back at her place. Her mother was suspiciously absent, but now that Harry thought about it from his perch it made more sense. Harry's eyes had slid along his girl-lovers naked body and she hadn't even been showing. "Just because it's hard to say, you know? Then mom told my grandmother, that evil old lady, and the bitch is threatening to take her to court for something like 'endangering the welfare of a child."

"It's no problem though, right? Your mom is all sorts of awesome," Pascal had tried to reason. He'd burrowed under some of the covers, as a sort of measure of security because the entire situation required literal security blankets.

"The problem is that she's all sorts of awesome," PB explained, and Harry knew what was up. PB's mom was a hippie, and that sort of lifestyle came with all sorts of problems. The most concerning issues were that she didn't believe in paying taxes, grew her own medicinal herbs, had never registered her car. So yeah, her grandmother would have no problems getting custody. PB explained all of that her main squeeze. "…So that means I'm moving to Montana soon."

'Soon' apparently meant that her grandmother would show up sometime during the night and whisk her away to some estate in the middle of nowhere. PB's mother, Audrina, had been forced to give up custody or face trial. Blackmail was actually one of Harry's favorite methods, because the shock on the other persons face when they realized they were in some deep shit was one of his favorites when he was pissed off. However, that was before Audrina was crushed and PB was gone, just like that. Harry was -hurt wasn't a strong enough word for it.

What the two, three, or sometimes just the one of them if the other two were tired, had done was revealing, loving, mutually consensual. Harry knew that he would carry those memories for the rest of his life, and it wasn't even just about the sex. PB had known he was damaged, both of them did. The warnings signs were so obvious that even Harry had to take a moment to himself and think that something was seriously wrong. He'd feel the bite of the silver cuff on the top of his ear and he would remind himself that not everyone was like she was, Petunia -he meant that not everyone was like Petunia. In fact, people like his aunt were statistical anomalies. PB knew he was an emotional wreck but she kept on trying anyway, and she hadn't pushed him. Neither of them had, thought if Harry were to put it into honest words then he'd have to say that Pascal's massive boner and the thought of it going places that had never been explored before was far less frightening than the thought of the cavern of soft flesh enveloping him. It was just that over the years he'd been conditioned to recognize the feeling as something more like an attack. She'd given him reason to think otherwise. Then she was gone.

Harry was _only_ an emotional wreck though. Pascal, her brain twin, was downright catatonic with pain. PB was his everything when all he had been given was a drunk mother and a father who more than likely had other, secret families. Harry was only sort-of surprised that he showed up at school. Then again, his option was to stay home with his mom and her sherry. Harry wrinkled his nose and reread the same like for the tenth time as he recalled the look about Pascal that afternoon. His limp hair and his plain clothes were a shock when all Pascal had been in the past months was flamboyant and the perfect picture of happiness. That morning Harry had dug through the drawers until he'd found one of Dean's plain black shirts, it hung half way down his thighs, and the jacket that looked like it was leather but it most certainly wasn't from the first unofficial hunt he'd been on. He'd been trying to make himself feel better buy wrapping himself up in happy memories, but it didn't really work.

Pascal had reiterated the explanation that Audrina had given him that morning, chocking back tears. Harry couldn't help but think that was a terrible look on the boy, his lover with the blue and black hair, and he'd preferred all of his clear expressions of happiness and ecstasy. Harry had sat down close. Wedging himself into someone else's personal space was new. He'd never done it before, not in all of those months he had in South Dakota. His think arm, thankfully free of his cast, wrapped around Pascal's hips and his boyfriend leant over to rest a sharp cheekbone on the crown of Harry's head and he began weeping openly. Harry waited.

Really though, he waited and planned because he was never good at just sitting there without processing any thoughts. He couldn't think of a way to get PB back without putting everyone he cared about in the United States in danger. If he brought the law enforcement to his door, he wouldn't just have a black mark on his fake records, he wouldn't just put Audrina in a bad position, he'd expose Bobby's home. That home with all the hidden weapons, the illegal phone lines all labeled with the government alphabet, and the occult lore that would most certainly alarm Child Services. So getting PB back was out of the question, as much as that broke his heart. However, he could probably get Pascal to her. Harry would miss him, but he always knew that he wasn't in on whatever it was his friends shared. Sure, he was loved and he was respected and he got off _a lot. _It wasn't the same as what those two kept between them though, it wasn't as _soul-wrenching. _

"We'll get you there," Harry said aloud. If his plan was going to work then Pascal had to know what it was.

Pascal pulled away just enough so that he could look own at Harry, his large blue eyes were swollen and raw. Harry recognized hope there too, he'd always know that emotion when he saw it. It was there in the eyes of the Champions from the tournament every time they talked about victory, when they went off to face more danger despite how down-right terrified they all were. It had been in Sirius' eyes every time he looked at Harry, it had been written across Hermione's entire face when Harry and Ron had appeared in the girls loo, back in first year and the troll was looming over her like a big, dumb creature of terror. Harry realized exactly how much it meant to Pascal, that if this didn't work out his life was as good as over. Harry only hoped he would find someone to love so much.

"Harley?" Pascal asked, just to drag Harry out of his thoughts, and Harry remembered chocking down his own emotions so he could speak.

The shouting from downstairs interrupted Harry's thoughts. It seemed that one of the dad's had finally gotten enough of the silence and they were at each others throats again. Harry closed his eyes and felt out the living energies from downstairs. There were a few artifacts that Bobby kept around, like those petrified heads from the Amazon that Bobby had received in the mail just a week ago, that emitted their own magics, they confused his senses just a tad. Missouri was in his kitchen, fixing a cuppa, probably as a means of escaping the living room and finding something to calm her nerves. She could hear every thought flying through the house and it must have been wrecking her patience. Bobby was at his desk in the library, the shrunken heads were staring at him and sharing thoughts, impressions really, about Harry's dad. John was in the living room, sitting in front of the idiot box. The heads seemed to be favoring Bobby's side of the disagreement, and Lolanillel was sitting on top of the television, his legs were crossed in a lotus position. It was probably the elf that sparked the recent outburst.

Missouri had left Lawrence, Kansas to stay with Bobby for a little while. That much was obvious, that she had planned to stick around long enough to give Harry the basic pointers of surviving as a freakishly powerful human. She had been teaching Harry control, of his emotions and his powers, and when it was less dangerous they would move back to the mind reading thing and then maybe on to reading the future. Lolanillel was on the opposite side of the teacher spectrum. He showed up whenever he pleased, expected Harry to drop everything and became annoyed when Harry couldn't, he tortured the hell out of Harry, staid without considering what everyone else wanted, and then left when they least expected it. The pattern had gone on for months.

Elves, Harry learned, usually waited until their children had finished growing before they began to teach them. That meant that the students were already adults, and in much better condition than Harry was in, when they began training. Dean was probably under the impression that his lessons consisted of more meditation and communing with nature. There was meditation involved, but it wasn't 'clear your mind' type shit that most people expected it to be. More than that, elves considered training their magic as just a part of conditioning themselves to become warriors. Training for Lolanillel involved shaping his magic to fit him physically, and then going through the motions of learning hand-to-hand and occasionally the sword.

Bobby had talked mixing in some weapons training in the beginning, when Harry was still grounded from Dean and Harry still shrunk away from PB and Pascal. Then Harry told him about his conversation through the mirror with his friend named Ron, Missouri and Lolanillel had flipped their shit and began yelling at him and one another, because it was a type of magic that Harry didn't know anything about and shouldn't have known anything about. It was something the faerie's did, they smeared the blood along a reflective surface and called out with their magic. Lolanillel had accused Missouri, Bobby, and people that Harry didn't even know of sharing secrets and breaking treaties. Missouri had been shouting at him because he should have learned his lesson when he connected with the moon, that unknown spells were dangerous, and at Lolanillel because she was convinced he was a terrible person. Bobby just turned to Harry and said "It can wait a while," and got back to his tamales.

The point was that Lolanillel had very little knowledge of how to interact with humans and didn't really care when he pissed people off. It seemed that Harry was the only one that wasn't constantly annoyed with the Canadian elf. It was also very likely that he was the one that set John and Bobby off again, with some carefully chosen words, and he was just sitting on top of the television watching it all play out. Knowing all he needed to, Harry pulled his magic back towards him, wrapping it tightly against his body, but he let it wash over Dean as he did so. Then dropped. The entire situation was too stressful. He'd rather be trampled by a hippogriff than for things to continue on as they were.

The arguing had stopped sometime during his meditation, nine minutes and fifty six seconds. Heavy feet fell on the stairs and Harry felt John's energy drawing closer. As it did, Harry shrunk into himself, he brought his feet onto the chair so that he could rest his chin on his knees if only the giant book weren't in the way. John opened the bedroom door only moments later. Harry could even feel him taking in all the details of the room while he decided what to do next. He could either kick Harry out or join him in his worried watch.

John walked up to the bed, hesitating only a little as his feet came in contact with the salt rings that were pressed flat into the hardwood floor. That salt would never budge, not unless someone dug it all out with some heavy duty tools, and even then it was made so that it would repair itself as quickly as possible. John didn't take the second chair that someone had brought up from the kitchen table. He just stood at the foot of the bed and stared down at his son, who would be fine.

Neither one of them wanted to speak first, Harry most certainly wouldn't because he knew that if he did he'd say something in anger, probably blame John for Dean's injuries, so he waited and pretended to read. John eventually broke the silence, because there were some things they needed to work out before their problems became any worse than they were. "I don't trust you," John said.

That was fine with Harry, he didn't trust John either, and it was painfully obvious since John had returned that neither one of them liked each other. Harry wasn't stupid enough to say that out loud, so instead he said "Dean does," which was probably worse than just coming out and calling John the biggest asshole of all time.

John's hardened gaze honed in quickly on Harry, the boy could feel the heat of his gaze on his head. "He does," John growled out moments later, "Lord knows why." Harry knew why, it was because they spent days in one another's thoughts, feeling what the other was feeling, but that was something that would actually get Harry shot and killed.

"He trusts you," Harry snapped back, accusingly. He blamed John for Dean's injuries, he blamed him for keeping Dean away for so long, he blamed him for those awkward stretches of silence during their phone conversations when Harry just knew Dean wanted to tell him how hard it was to share his life with someone who didn't even want to look at him. He blamed John for a lot. Harry counted to ten, which was far quicker than meditating his rising anger away. He really was going to have to get faster at centering himself. He couldn't just spend ten minutes in his own head every time he became upset. "He trusts us both," Harry continued, "that's going to have to be enough for now."

"Going to have to be," John agreed reluctantly, and then demanded "you can't keep him distracted during hunts with all your little messages." Harry refused to flinch at that. He didn't bat his eyes at Voldemort then he wouldn't flinch for John Winchester.

"You can't just keep him away for months and months," Harry demanded in return, feeling rather ballsy.

John turned his entire body that time, and his glare was intense, "I'm his father." Basically, that was a blanket response that meant he could do whatever he damn well pleased, it was a statement of ownership.

"He's an adult," Harry finally looked back, and he knew his own green eyes were probably eerie to look into, but John met his gaze steadily.

"You're a child," he said it as if that meant something profound, Harry wasn't sure why. Harry's age had nothing to do with whether or not Dean could stick around for more than a couple of days at a time and the only exceptions were when he was injured.

"He'll burn out," Harry threatened. He knew it was a pretty empty threat too, because Dean was young and wouldn't feel the wear and tear of the world until he was a bit older, a bit more mature. "Everyone needs a break once in a while," Harry pressed, "time to decompress." Harry needed to decompress, he needed that terrible week to be over.

John seemed to see a bit of reason there, but he didn't want to admit that Harry maybe might have had a point there. Harry knew John took time to himself, so there was no reason not to let Dean. "You stop sending him little messages during active missions and he gets a week every other month."

Harry couldn't believe it, they were really going to haggle over custody of Dean. It seemed wrong, but what John was offering was stupid. "I won't text him during work hours and you make it a week every month. In return I can send you verified cases." There were such hunters who didn't like to look through all the papers for a case, and chose to just call Bobby for work. They still had plenty of hunts to outsource, and that way the lines of communication were more open and would put John and Harry in work together -they could keep better watch on each other that way.

"Plus one favor," John amended, "a big one, outside of regular hunts."

Harry didn't like the sound of that, and weighed what John knew about him against things John wanted. John wanted the monster that killed his wife dead and John wanted his boys with him to hunt down those things. Sam Winchester, Harry thought slowly, recalling memories that Missouri had shared with him while he was in cold pain.

"Nothing to do with Dean's brother," Harry stressed, he didn't want to be forced under any circumstances to ruin the chance that Sam had at that fancy school Dean occasionally bitched about. Despite how much Dean missed his brother, he still wanted the kid to have what he wanted, and if that was a college education then so be it.

John clenched his teeth at the mention of Sam, Dean seemed to be the only one that called him Sammy. "Fine," he growled, and Harry felt the deal wash over him. He'd just been given something, Harry realized with a slow blink, he'd eventually give John something in return. Startled, John spent just one more second staring at Harry with a shit ton of anger and stormed out of the room. He was probably going to go shoot things in the back yard.

Oddly enough, Harry was left relaxed, secure in the knowledge that he'd get to see Dean far more often and that he wouldn't be left in the very dark corner of all of the hunting business, he'd get some information at least. He looked down at his book and moved on to a new sentence.

Moments later a groan filtered through the room, a noise that came from the lump of flesh on the bed. Dean was waking up. At lightning speeds Harry stood, dropped the tome in the chair and was hovering over Dean's prone form, one hand was resting on Dean's collar bone. His eyes bore down and his mind reached out, "Dean?"

Moss colored eyes finally opened.

**Bonus**

Days before Dean was to arrive back at the Singer Salvage Yard Dobby contemplated tea. Dobby enjoyed tea. He liked how the water changed color slowly, the bite of flavor on his tongue, the sweet swell of it all as sugar was poured in. He liked delicate little tea cups on matching little saucers, all the different colors and patterns. He had his own tea set, one that Missy Granger had given him for his Freedom day the year before. His Freedom day was like a birthday, but it was the day that Mister Harry Potter Sir had set him free from the evil-mean-Malfoy family. The Weezy's had all given him knitted socks. He liked them made that way better because they would always be unique and he appreciated the hard work that went in to making them. Mister Harry Potter Sir needn't have gotten him anything, not after he'd freed Dobby, but every year he was there with a carefully woven ribbon called a Friendship Bracelet. Dobby couldn't bring himself to wear them often, because he didn't want them damaged by cleaning solutions or warn out so much that they wore in half. He kept them carefully tacked to a carriage wheel that hung from his wall, like a portrait. Dobby mostly enjoyed tea though, because he enjoyed sharing it with others.

There were children who would sneak into the kitchens and sit at a low table as Dobby bounced around and got things ready. There were students from all houses, even the Slytherin house, who joined him, and they would tell him about their day and listen about his. Dobby liked rainy days the best, because then numerous students would crowd around the low table and allowed him to pour their tea and they did kind things like save him a seat and a cup and they all listened while he talked. Dobby did not, _did not _like tea with the Headmaster.

He used to, because the wonderful Headmaster of Hogwarts had a great many stories to tell and always listened with interest. However, once Mister Harry Potter Sir had gone off to meet his greater destiny the Headmaster had…fallen, somewhat. He wasn't as caring or attentive, he wasn't as calm. He was much like the former Master Malfoy was when he wasn't getting his way. He only asked Dobby to tea because he had other motives, and Dobby knew just what they were. The Headmaster of Hogwarts wanted Dobby to find Mister Harry Potter Sir. He said so himself, in kind words with bright eyes that twinkled like he was happy as happy could be. However, Dobby knew better. Granted, Dobby only knew better because of a natural intuition that was honed after years and years of watching for even the slightest shift of moods in those Pure Of Blood, and it was just the twitch of his hands and the slight strain of his upper lip, but Dobby could tell the Headmaster of Hogwarts was upset and he was upset because Mister Harry Potter Sir was not where the Headmaster could easily have him.

Dobby agreed to find Mister Harry Potter Sir. Dobby popped back to his room, agitated, he already owned his very own Hogwarts trunk with a lovely large, golden D in the center of the crest. In a haste, he filled it with his clothing things, quickly piling socks and pillow cases in, and carefully taking down every woven ribbon that he'd received and stowing them as well. He could say goodbye. It had crossed his mind. He should say goodbye to Winky at least. She was his closest. He should say goodbye to Winky, he decided.

No, Dobby thought, the less she knew the less she could confess to the Headmaster -her employer, but Dobby didn't have to work for Dumbledore, he was proud to be a free elf and he could find work later. Just like he could find Winky later, when maybe the Headmaster was less mad…or dead. Hopefully then he would know how to help her, such a sad free elf.

Dobby carefully wrapped his tea set, it was painted carefully with butterflies, he could fix it all later but he'd like it better if nothing broke, and it too went into the trunk. Then the Weezy Christmas Sweaters, bright blue with brilliantly bold D's right in the middle, his many trainers. He did so enjoy owning shoes, and he packed away the pictures some students had given him, some Weezy Wheezes, and also his pillow. He had no spare parchment so he wrote his note on the wall, big and in his favorite orange ink. Then he was done and he was popping himself to where he knew his greatest friend of all time would be. He did promise to find Mister Harry Potter Sir.

He did not promise to share that information, he did not promise to ask Mister Harry Potter Sir to abandon his greater destiny, he did not offer to help Mister Harry Potter Sir. Mister Harry Potter Sir was his own person, he could clean his own things, mend his own clothes, put his own things away in the places that they aught to be. Dobby stayed unseen to the eyes and to the magic. Dobby observed the small room, the salt markings, the carefully clean environment. He popped downstairs. The kitchen was clean, just as Dobby suspected, all herbs were labeled perfectly, all dishes were clean, there was no rotten food, no dust, no bugs. In the other rooms, the one with the great elf, there were signs of a long ago Dust Bunny invasion, but that was all. Everything was as perfect as Mister Harry Potter Sir liked, and it was a good place to be.

Dobby could ask to stay, he'd like it very much if he could. However, Dobby knew that offering to stay would imply to his greatest friend that he didn't believe Mister Harry Potter Sir could care for his space and his family on his own. Offering to help would only make Mister Harry Potter Sir feel inferior, and Dobby understood that better than any human could.

Dobby didn't clean anything, he just followed silently. Dobby did feel a little bad that Mister Harry Potter Sir's privacy wasn't nearly as private as he thought it was. It was a good thing though, Dobby assured himself as he followed Mister Harry Potter Sir to a train station late at night, when he was sure that Mister Harry Potter Harley Singer Sir had not told his patter where he would be or why.

He watched as Mister Harry Potter Sir's heart broke a million times in just a moment, as he said goodbye to a boy with Ravenclaw hair. Dobby had never seen his friend so sad, not when the Sirius Black had to leave without him, not even when his Weezy wasn't talking to him. No, it was a goodbye of a different kind. It was the goodbye of letting someone go, and Mister Harry Potter Sir reached out for touch to comfort them both. Dobby had never seen that before, so the boy with the Ravenclaw hair must have meant a great deal to him yet he was sending him away. Dobby's natural intuition said it was for a good reason, but that Mister Harry Potter Sir was very nervous.

Dobby would be nervous too, sending a child out into the world without any protection spells or even any armor. Dobby knew his mission then and it filled him with many feelings of happiness and excitement. Dobby popped his trunk in with the rest of the luggage and felt deep within the boy for something to hold on to, his heart and soul, and Dobby anchored himself to that feeling, the boy's very person. The Pascal that Mister Harry Potter Harley Singer Sir loved, and Dobby would help him when his greatest friend could not. Dobby would help him with is entire family; that girl with the bright pink hair and the baby she was going to have, Dobby could feel it all welling up inside of him. Dobby could feel his family.

* * *

**To the Masses:**

I sort of miss when it only took a hand full of hours to get a chapter done. Now it takes days. Granted, those days have a lot of breaks in them. You'll notice this chapter doesn't have a lot of dialogue in it, that's because I'm lazy. I feel like a lot happened though, and I hope it still goes well with the rest of the story. It's kind of hard to tell since I take so many unexpected breaks.

Ummm…Is that it?

I like quotes, song suggestons, and reviews.

Much appreciated,

Al


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